Gone Wylde 09: Descent Into Hell
by Concolor44
Summary: Karl has come upon a set of very narrow straits.  Wendy must make some weighty decisions on what to do about his situation, decisions that will completely change her life.  Rated for intense violence.
1. Abandon Hope, Ye Who Enter  Part A

**Book Nine of the Gone Wylde Cycle:**

**Descent Into Hell**

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_**. . .**_

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_**Chapter 1 – Abandon Hope, Ye Who Enter – Part A**_

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##

**Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully  
****as when they do it from religious conviction.**

**- _Blaise Pascal_**

##

_** Monday 4 September 2017 – 1:10pm – North Africa **_

**.**

**.**

**.**

**D**

**R**

**I**

**P**

_That's … a hundred and thirteen._

The sweat beaded on his forehead, slowly, oh, so slowly, for he had very little moisture to spare. And yet the brutal midday heat pulled it out of him. Two, and then three of the tiny drops merged, held onto the cracked and blistered skin for a moment, and then relented to gravity's patient grip. It made a line alongside one ruined eye, changed course slightly to follow the length of his muzzle, paused for a brief moment at the end of his nose, and then fell the twenty-odd centimeters to the dark brown paving stones.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**D**

**R**

**I**

**P**

_That's a hundred and thirteen. _

_No. Fourteen. _

_Thirteen? _

_No, fourteen._

At the entrance to the small, dusty courtyard, a line of locals had queued up. Each was given a small nail. One at a time, they were allowed to walk up to the wolverine, choose a spot on his body somewhere, and press the nail in as far as they could using only their paws. He had, by his best count, eleven in his face, forty-one in his groin area, and eighty-six elsewhere on his wasted form. Gafah had thought up this little bit of entertainment late yesterday, but word had spread quickly through the city. A clear majority of the inhabitants were overjoyed to be able to add to the pain of the demon in fur that their Fearless Leader had captured. They were grateful to him for the opportunity, and eager (if they knew what was good for them) to show their loyalty by helping to torture his enemy.

The one-hundred and thirty-ninth nail went in behind his left knee. He could feel the pressure, but that was all. Long since had he turned off his body's pain receptors. Considering his current state, he wasn't sure he'd be able to feel anything even if he hadn't.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**D**

**R**

**I**

**P**

_That's a hundred and … fifteen? Yes, fifteen._

_You sure?_

_Sure enough._

_Does it really matter?_

_Only insofar as I can retain my faculties._

_A losing battle, my friend._

_Maybe. But it's a battle I have no choice but to fight._

The beads of sweat had a clear path to the ground because he was held suspended parallel to it by stout cables attached to each limb. Gafah had made sure that there would be no slipping out of the bonds: a heavy spike passed through each arm between radius and ulna, and through each leg between tibia and fibula. The cable was threaded into holes near both ends of each spike, and pulled taut to four heavy timbers that had been set up for this purpose. Karl wasn't going anywhere.

When the latest amateur torturer got the nail in as far as he could – which wasn't very far – he spat on the wolverine, cursed him in the local tongue, and kicked him in the head. He was promptly clubbed to the ground by two of the guards and then dragged off to the side. Another guard addressed the furs lined up at the entrance. To Karl he sounded really pissed off.

_He's probably telling them to stick to the plan. I guess they really don't want me dying. Pity, that._

Things got quieter and then another fur approached him. He felt pressure in his left elbow.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**D**

**R**

**I**

**P**

_That's a hundred and sixteen._

##

_** a month earlier – 9:30pm – near Falling Spring, Virginia **_

Not long after Karl regained consciousness the aircraft carrying him landed. The hours following were filled with bumps and drops and the sound of machinery and Karl's steadily mounting hunger.

This pain he could not just turn off. It was everywhere, insistent and growing and clawing at his insides. He needed food! He had to have something, _anything_ to eat. Though he didn't know how many hours he'd been out, he was _sure_ he had never gone this long without eating since receiving his Augments years ago. As the hours and minutes – and finally, each dragging, agonizing, grinding, blighted second – trekked slowly by, the hunger consumed all his thoughts.

Eat!

Food!

_Eat! **Now!**_

At length there was a final jarring bump followed by the sound of massive bolts sliding free. One side of the crate slowly opened, and a feeble light spilled inside.

"Drag him out."

A long hook reached in and snagged his bonds. He was jerked around and pulled out of the box backward to sprawl on the ground. Something tickled his nose. His head shot toward the ground and he began biting at the grass, swallowing each small mouthful as fast as possible without bothering to chew.

"What the hell is he doing?"

"I dunno, but I ain't gettin' close to those teeth."

"Idiots! Do you not see? It is as we were informed. A body as great and powerful as his must have a great deal of nourishment to survive. He is starving to death."

"But we only got him this afternoon! It ain't been nine hours yet! He can't be starvin' already!"

Madame Schmedtte watched the wolverine as he squirmed around on the ground, snatching up mouthfuls of grass, and considered her options. "This is a development I had not anticipated. He is not paying the slightest attention to us. All he wants to do is feed. His system must be driving him to do so." She looked around at one of her lackeys. "Jerome, go get some meat from the cook."

"Yes, Madame." And he hurried off.

The leader of the Trenchant Furs turned back to Karl and studied him. "Doubtless he requires more food today than he usually does because of his injuries."

A few minutes passed before Jerome returned with the meat, and Karl had all but denuded the earth as far as he could reach. His nose caught the scent of the meat and he strained around in that direction.

"Drop it where he can get to it."

The chunk of roast never hit the ground. His head lunged forward and snatched it mid-fall. A few quick chews and three-quarters of a kilo of beef vanished. He licked his nose and sniffed around for more.

Madame seemed satisfied. "Take him downstairs."

##

They electrocuted him again so they could rearrange his bonds. When he came to his senses he was in a small cage. His right arm was fastened behind him and joined with his legs at the ankles. His left arm was free. And a bottomless pit of shattering torment occupied the space where his stomach should have been. Immediately he inhaled deeply and scooted around, following the aroma of sizzling meat.

There. Outside the cage, in a wall less than a meter away, was a small, square cubby. The plate, piled with steaks, sat in plain view. He struggled to place his left shoulder against the bars, snaked his arm through them, and reached for the plate. Just as his paw was about to enter the cubby, a door dropped down. He stubbed his fingers repeatedly on the door, and howled his rage.

His gut was a screaming wasteland of hunger; the pain reached into his limbs, up his neck, flooded his brain. _**Food!**_ He could force no other thought into his head. He wrapped his free paw around one of the bars, braced himself as well as he could, and started pulling. The metal groaned in protest, but didn't quite bend.

A sound jerked his head around. He saw another open cubby on the wall opposite the first one. A loaf of fresh bread sat there, still steaming hot. He hunched eagerly over to that side of his cage, reached through, couldn't quite touch it, repositioned himself and reached again, got one finger on the edge of the plate …

The door came down like a guillotine, and he left the tips of three fingers in the cubby. Those watching thought he'd howled loudly _before_, but now …

He lay there in the center of the cage, panting and trembling violently, staring at his injured paw. The blood flow slowed and stopped. Scabs hardened. He could just barely feel the itch of newly-forming skin at the edges of the wounds … but it got no farther than that. And his hunger bit and raked and gibbered in his mind, a rabid thing robbing him of reason. He threw his head back and howled again, drawing it out forever and ever and ever and …

"Should we feed him now, Madame?"

The old weasel smiled to herself, greedily watching the monitor. "… No. Not just yet." _This is too delightful! I can inflict the most monstrous pain with hardly any effort. All I need to do is be sure he stays hungry. _ "I will let you know."

"Yes, Madame."

##

By the end of the third day of starvation, Karl was too drained to move on his own. Madame had him shackled to a wall, pinning his limbs thoroughly, just in case, and proceeded to take up the torture herself. He may be weakened, but he could still be a threat, and given the things she planned to do to him, he might just dredge up enough energy to fight back.

But, no. Though he would writhe in agony when she plunged various sharp or heated or electrified objects into him, he never came close to breaking free. Now, having just finished a light supper, she was back at it again, this time using running irons and a brazier of coals.

A second smoking hole was eating into his upper arm when the door to her abattoir opened behind her. She turned and held the iron pointed at the interloper. "I specifically said I was not to be …" Her eyes widened. "Hamad?"

"Good evening, Madame Schmedtte."

"What in the nine hells are you doing here? Get out!"

"Well, Madame," replied the fennec, his voice smooth as the slime on a hagfish, "as to what I am doing here, I came to pick up something for my sovereign. And I don't believe I'll be _'getting out'_ without it." He looked past her at the wolverine, smirking in satisfaction. "He sends you his thanks for procuring Gamma. I'll be taking him now."

"Like hell you will! He is mine! _Mine_ to kill! I will have my _vengeance!_"

"You are not seeing clearly, Madame." Hamad picked at a speck on his suit. "It is not as if I offered you a choice."

She laughed in his face. "You don't beard _this_ lion in her den, Hamad." She picked up the other running iron from the brazier and held them in a practiced stance. "You were never any good in a match, certainly never my equal. I'm giving you one chance to make it out of here alive … if you leave _now_."

"An empty threat, Madame." He gave a jerk to his head and six jackals, much larger than he, filed in to stand behind and beside him.

"Hardly." She bared her teeth and pressed a button on one of her bracelets. "My guards will be here in seconds. You should have left."

"Your guards? You mean, like this one?" He glanced over at one of his companions, who tossed the severed head of her chief of security at her feet.

Madame Schmedtte's eyes went wide for a second, and then she snarled, lifted one of the long, sharp irons high and aimed it at the fennec, murder plain on her face. But she never completed the throw. Two of Hamad's thugs shot her, and she fell with a choking cry.

The fennec walked slowly over to her, and just as slowly squatted down beside her.

Bloody froth speckled her lips as she glared at him in hate. "See … you … in hell."

He chuckled quietly and said, "If I had known how much trouble you were going to be, I never would have invited you to that first meeting. But fortunately that is one mistake I can correct." He drew a long, thin knife from a sleeve and slid it deliberately across her throat, just under the jawbone. It was only seconds before her eyes glazed over and she went limp. He wiped his knife off on her shirt, stood and said, "Get him down. As soon as he is secure, put the feeding tube in."

##


	2. Abandon Hope, Ye Who Enter Part B

_**Chapter 1 – Abandon Hope, Ye Who Enter – Part B**_

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##

_** Wednesday 09 August 2017 – 10:20am **_

Most of the personnel from an entire Special Forces battalion were assigned to this mission. The Trenchant Fur Network's presence on American soil was a national-security issue, and the DoD wasn't taking any chances. They had _absolutely_ no sense of humor about those people.

They'd gotten a break the evening before when the group of TFN operatives they'd been monitoring got some kind of urgent distress signal from their base, piled into their cars, and hot-wheeled it out of Boston, traveling west and south. From a great height, they were observed, and followed. They drove through the night, finally arriving at their destination around nine that morning. And since the DoD had been given sufficient heads-up on the situation, they were able to assemble the response in very short order.

The infiltration and pacification of the compound proved so routine as to serve as a textbook example. No warning was given, no member of the TFN missed, even when a second and third group came roaring in the long, dirt drive. They were apprehended and added to the group of 'detainees'.

The reason for all the hubbub soon became clear: A rival faction of the Cartel had invaded the Trenchant Fur headquarters the night before, murdered Madame Schmedtte (Major Gurundi, the fur in charge of the operation and a personal friend of Lee's, preferred to think of that as 'extermination') and then spirited away a prisoner of hers that she had been torturing. They had killed most of the security team, but didn't bother with any of the servants or other functionaries. No one still living knew (or cared) who the prisoner-of-interest was, or why the other group wanted him. As curiosity was not a trait inclined to lengthen one's life in this business, it was rare among the low-level staff.

#

Capra tapped his earbud. "Raj? You getting' dis?""

"Getting it, yes. Comprehending it, no."

"Makes two of us."

"Unless I miss my guess badly, those are Marine Force Reconnaissance troops."

"Dat's w'at I t'ought."

"Can you maneuver the probe any closer to the house?"

"I'll try. Don' want 'em ta see it, ya know." He played with the controls, tweaking this and adjusting that until the robotic spy device had a clear view of the front of the rambling mansion. While it **_was_ **expertly camouflaged, it didn't have any cloaking technology, so Capra relied on cover where possible. "I got a shot at da windas. Lessee w'at da laser picks up."

He and Rajid were shortly listening in on a dialogue between two of the non-coms in charge of mop-up. After a few minutes of that proved unfruitful, he scanned around until he got another one. Apparently one of the mission commanders was in contact with a superior via radio. They could only hear one side of the conversation, but that was enough. He was discussing the disposition of the prisoners, and speculating on the identity of the 'special prisoner' the invaders had taken. The two ISB furs heard enough to confirm their fears. Beorn Gulo was no longer here.

Capra found and recorded parts of two other conversations before Rajid said, "That should be sufficient. Pull the probe back before some lucky soldier spots it."

Most of the key members of Rajid's team had come along on this trip, following the small TFN cell that had been watching over Darrel Mesomel. To their surprise and frustration, the final note left in the secret compartment behind the medicine cabinet had not elicited the kicked-anthill response they'd hoped for. No, that required the call the cell leader had received the night before. The ISB's tech wizards had no trouble tapping into the communication, and Rajid found himself both elated and apprehensive about the mentions of the 'special prisoner' and the attack on the compound. There were entirely too many unanswered questions here.

While Capra guided the robot back to their cloaked position, Rajid briefed the others. "So it appears that both we and the Defense Department arrived too late. Gulo would seem to have been transferred to the other group. According to the one witness who saw him, he was alive at the time, but had been tortured."

There was a generally tense level of grumbling over that bit of news. Trina asked, "So what's the move, Boss?"

"The move is that we find out who took him. It is time for some legwork, ladies and gentlefurs. The very _last_ thing I want to have happen is for Gulo to fall into the paws of someone who can study him and find out how he ticks. That would be extremely bad for all concerned."

Capra shifted his stogie to the other side of his mouth and added, "Not ta mention bad fer him."

##

_** Thursday 10 August 2017 – 3:00pm **_

"Is he lucid?"

"Yes, Fearless Leader, and strapped as you requested. He cannot move."

"Proceed."

Karl looked up when the heavy portal swung in, clanging against the stone wall. He focused his eyes, trying to see through the gloom. In his drastically weakened state, his secondary Augments didn't seem to want to cooperate, not reliably anyway. "Who's there?"

A heavy rhinoceros-hide whip came singing out of the darkness and cut him across the face. He flinched, steeled himself against what he knew was to come, and didn't cry out at the next blow … or the next, or the next, or the next. He sent his mind away, disconnected himself from his immediate gruesome circumstances, and was able to sit, unmoving, while the torturer literally carved him into pieces with the whip. He felt one ear go, then the other, then the wicked tip sliced his nose in half.

A voice said, "Enough." There was the sound of shuffling feet, and the door slammed shut. Many hours passed, and absolutely nothing else happened. At length, he slipped into unconsciousness.

##

When next he regained his senses, Karl held very still and spent a minute or so trying to get reoriented. He was sitting, and bound, if anything, more heavily than before. The raging hunger pangs that had tormented him the previous two days were banked – not gone, but at least bearable. The stumps of his ears itched. All that told him that they must have gotten some nutrients in him somehow.

"I know you are awake," said a voice in front of him. "Our monitors are quite sophisticated. You should not pretend otherwise."

Karl raised his head and opened his eyes, focusing on the figure of the fur that addressed him. The light in the room was very low. One shrouded bulb hung suspended over the head of the old jackal, a weak and wan thing that shadowed more than it lit. Karl's lips peeled back in a snarl. "Gafah."

"That would be 'Your Royal Majesty' since we are in Libya at the moment."

"Very well, Your Royal Sack of Shit."

The jackal smirked a bit. "Reduced to ad hominem attacks, Gamma? How the mighty are fallen."

Karl chose not to respond.

Gafah rose, a little haltingly, and stepped over to Karl, bent at the waist, and held his gloved left paw in front of the wolverine's face. "This is your doing." He slowly pulled the glove off, revealing a metallic prosthesis. He flexed it a few times and then used it to reach down and tap on his left leg below the knee. The sound was high and echoing. "And this. It hurts like hell whenever the weather changes."

"Good."

"Ah, but that's why I choose to live here most of the time. The weather hardly ever changes." He stood and backed off a step. "Just another benefit of being the king. I can go wherever I wish. Unlike you." He and the wolverine regarded each other silently for the space of several breaths, and then he said, "You know, I never really believed you'd died. They recovered no body, and while the explosion was very large, I never thought it powerful enough to incinerate you completely."

Karl simply watched him.

"You probably don't realize it, but I am somewhat in your debt, in a way. My scientists had a great deal of time to research your companions after that trap you managed to escape." He smiled, a hollow and dangerous thing that didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, yes. I see the surprise on your face plainly. There was plenty left of them to study." He started pacing slowly back and forth in front of his captive. His limp was hardly noticeable. "Amazing, really. They never have quite figured out how your creators were able to get those nanoscale supports into your muscle fibers, or how they managed to get your body to grow armor under your skin. The advanced healing ability is a little more straightforward. I am told that they are close to a viable copy of that most excellent gift now." He paused in front of Karl, held his eyes for a moment and said, "When they perfect it, I will take the treatment myself. Then my lost limbs will grow back." That smile again. "You will be here to see that, Gamma. I will ensure that myself. And they are close, perhaps even within the next year. It will only take a few hundred more experiments, or so they say. One of the recent subjects lived almost two weeks."

The wolverine couldn't quite suppress a snarl.

"Oh, does that bother you? I am surprised. Killing a thousand of my people did not seem to trouble you at all. And reliable reports indicate that you derived a large measure of satisfaction from killing my two oldest sons."

"Ah, that. Yes, that was a labor of love, as they say."

Gafah's eyes clouded thunderously. He stepped in close and dealt Karl a tremendous clout to the head. "My sons. I will see to it that you repay me a thousand deaths apiece for the lives of my sons."

"Those useless, rutting pigs lived much too long as it was. I only wish I had …"

Three more powerful blows knocked out two of his teeth and nearly rendered him senseless. Gafah leaned down into his face again. "You try my patience. You hope to provoke me to rage so I will kill you outright. That will not happen. Oh, no. My anger has had much time to mature, to age, to perfect itself, and I am its master. You will live, Gamma. I know your secret. As long as you have food, you will regenerate. I can cut pieces off of you for the next thirty years, and they will just grow back. I can take my time with you, and not worry about whether your system can take it. I _know_ it can take it. You will live, and die each day that you live, and drown in all the agony I can bring down on your worthless soul." He stood again and walked to Karl's left. "You have given me a great gift, Gamma. You have given me plenty of time to fully satisfy my revenge. Truly I cannot thank you enough. But perhaps this little display will help to demonstrate just how glad I am that you are here. With me. Now."

With that he spun Karl's chair around. Up to that point Karl hadn't known it would swivel, but it turned on soundless bearings. Gafah stopped it with a paw so Karl could see clearly the glass case that had been standing behind him all along.

Terrence. Rommel. Caleb. Yvonne. Phoebe.

The heads were mounted side by side. The left third of Rommel's skull was missing, as was most of Caleb's lower jaw. Yvonne had only one ragged ear, and one staring eye to match. The front of Phoebe's head was nearly unmarred, but her expression, captured forever behind the glass, was one of absolute, hopeless, final horror. Karl gagged, and a long, agonized scream tore at his throat. He struggled violently in his bonds, to no avail. Even if he hadn't been weakened by starvation, the aircraft cable that held him would have been well beyond his strength.

The jackal walked back into his field of view, and stepped over to the end of the case. He laid a paw on another, smaller such display case, only this one was empty. His smile, as he studied the wolverine's reaction, was a terrible thing to behold. "As you can see, I am not quite finished."

Karl, panting heavily, glared such obscene hatred at the other fur that his pelt should have burst into flames on the spot.

"What, are you not curious?" He indicated the front of the case below the glass, where a dark cloth covered most of a bronze plaque. "Surely you don't think this is for you! I just promised you that I wouldn't kill you. And I always keep my promises."

Karl's brows drew together, but he said nothing … until Gafah pulled the cloth away and he saw the name on the plaque: _Wendy_.

A quick intake of breath was followed by an incredible howl of despair. Gafah chuckled in response. "My intelligence network is not composed of fools, old enemy. I know about your wife. I have examples of her likeness in my possession. I know that she resembles your old love, and that she has some kind of chronic illness. And I know …" he said, stepping over to stand beside Karl and lowering his voice, "… I _know_, my _friend_, that one day soon her head will decorate that case. It will be here every time you wake, staring at you, reminding you that it was your fault she had to die."

The wolverine howled again and gnashed at his captor. Gafah stabbed a probe of some sort into Karl's neck and a sudden flow of electricity disconnected his mind from his body. He went limp.

"Every day, Gamma," the jackal whispered. "Every day of every month of every year for the rest of your miserable existence. You will not die. I will not _let_ you die."

##

**Tear man out of his outward circumstances;  
****and what he then is; that only is he.**

_**-Johann Gottfried Seume**_

##

_** Sunday 20 August 2017 – 1:00pm **_

The heat was brutal. The greenhouse sort of arrangement they were using for his current prison probably had a lot to do with that.

On the plus side he was free to move around. His limbs were unshackled here. He could walk down the long, curving, random halls, through the various rooms and into other halls. But he'd already been through the entire labyrinth, he knew every passage, every dead end. So he had no real reason to go anywhere. The spot where he sat, leaning his sweating back against the peeling paint on the steel walls, was as good as any other. But it was small comfort.

There was no food. Water could be had. They left it for him here and there in the maze, dropping the plastic bottles down to him through small holes in the clear plastic ceiling. Sometimes they would rupture. It was, after all, nearly six meters from the floor where he sat to ground level above. And there were always at least five armed guards watching him, following him, reminding him of his powerless position.

In one way he had managed to work this around to his advantage. Gafah had left him alone for the last two days, and it had given him the time and opportunity to examine his body's reaction to starvation. He was learning, slowly and with much pain, to control the unremitting hunger. But he could tell that it wouldn't be many more days before his system shut down completely, leaving him in a nearly comatose state of hibernation. _Or_, he chuckled wryly to himself, _given this heat I guess you'd call it aestivation._ No matter. He wouldn't be able to keep himself conscious much longer without food. And despite Gafah's promise, it did look as if he intended to starve the wolverine to death. _Hah! I should be so lucky._

The walls were vertical. The sun was almost directly overhead, and it beat his head like a maul. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing and waited for shade.

##

_** Monday 21 August 2017 – 9:00am **_

A shrill grating sound announced to Karl that one of the few hatches out of this place was being opened nearby. He just didn't have the energy to care. Shortly he heard crunching sounds and someone stopped at the edge of the maze above him.

"Gamma!"

It was Gafah. Karl didn't respond in any way.

"Remember what I said about not killing you? I meant it. So to that end I have just provided you something to eat."

The stump of an ear twitched at the mention of food.

"Ah, you are _not_ asleep. Yes, well, you will find your meal in the next large room down to your right. You have been there before. Just go and get it." He added in a protective, almost wheedling tone, "I won't have you starving."

Karl knew better than to trust anything that ogre said, but he also couldn't afford to pass up food. Painfully he climbed to his feet and shambled down the corridor to the room mentioned. He swung around through the doorway and then stopped dead. In the center of the room sat a young mouse girl, certainly no more than ten or twelve, naked and filthy. She huddled to herself when she spotted the wolverine, and started to sob. Karl looked up at the clear ceiling, growling in lethal hatred at the jackal who stood there smirking.

"What? You do not care for our choice of cuisine? Well, you had better get used to it. I know you, Gamma. Your own skin means more to you than any other fur's does. You will get hungry enough to dine eventually. And do not worry. I will not run out of this sort of food. There is plenty more where she came from." And he tossed back his head and laughed heartily. "Have a very pleasant day, Gamma. This should be quite entertaining."

Karl looked down at the girl for several seconds. She regarded him in abject fear, cried harder, and scooted over to the wall. He shook his head, turned, and walked back to his spot. Sliding slowly down the hot steel, he closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and renewed his meditations.


	3. Unpleasant Truths Part A

_**Chapter 2 – Unpleasant Truths – Part A**_

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**Life is a tragedy wherein we sit as spectators for awhile  
****and then act our part in it.**

_**-Jonathan Swift**_

##

_** Monday 4 September 2017 – 1:10pm **_

Rajid pulled up short at the entrance to the food court and scanned the place, noting the number and variety of customers. _Let me see … two … three … okay, and that makes it five obvious agents. That means there are probably at least that many not-so-obvious ones. Quite the paranoid type, this Lee Evans. But then that would be consistent with his profile._ He went on in and chose a table in the section they'd specified.

It took Lee the better part of a week to set up the meeting in such a way that both he and Wendy felt reasonably secure about it. He would have arranged to get them together at his office, except that the military higher-ups weren't comfortable with a ranking member of the Internal Security Bureau traipsing around their halls. Due to a number of regrettable past incidents, the Department of Defense and the ISB didn't play well together. The Homeland Security umbrella was supposed to have remedied that, but experience forges a sharper blade, and cuts the memory more deeply, than does policy. And while Rajid was not completely sure about what the redoubtable Mr. Evans had been up to in the past six days, he, himself had been digging up as much information on the enigmatic cat as could be unearthed by mortal fur. Nor had what he discovered given him any kind of warm fuzzy afterglow. Lee Evans, although not technically a military fur, was well versed in all the important tactical and practical aspects of covert combat, a state of affairs he had worked on with some diligence for at least half his life. He had connections, both professional and personal, all the way to the Joint Chiefs. He was a crack shot, and had paw-to-paw fighting skills to rival some of Rajid's best agents. In short, he would make a very bad enemy.

Rajid's goal here was to prevent that from happening.

A few minutes after taking his seat, the mongoose noticed that the various vendors were methodically, one by one, closing their establishments. Over the next quarter-hour, as the customers began to finish their meals and leave, the ring of mini-restaurants grew dark. When the final young family had ambled back out into the main mall area, two of the previously-identified agents pulled a short bar gate across the entrance and hung a **CLOSED** sign on it. Then four others set up a wide net of very fine wires that wrapped around most of the court. It may not have been as sophisticated as Karl's soft-energy walls, but it was just about as effective.

One of the agents walked up to the ISB Director and said, "Sir, I'm sorry, but we'll have to scan you."

Rajid sighed, "You told me to come unarmed and wireless. I did so. However, I suppose 'trust-but-verify' applies in this case."

"Yes, Sir." The agent aimed a small rod in Rajid's direction, waved it slowly up and down, and then read the display. He nodded and walked back to the wall.

A door behind one of the stalls opened and a petite vixen eased out. Rajid's breath caught as he followed her progress. She came up to his table, an unreadable expression on her delicate features, and stood there, staring at him. He swallowed and said, "This is remarkable."

"What is?"

"I suppose that Beorn told you about your resemblance to …"

"Phoebe Reynard. Yes. He did." Those golden eyes masked a cold, gray wall that Rajid almost feared and wanted to understand. She took a chair at the next table, turning it to face him. "I want to tell you about Karl, Mr. Rajid."

"Yes, Karl. I apologize. I have always known him as Beorn."

"The pseudonym was necessary to preserve his anonymity."

He was struck by the precision of her words, the control in her voice. "Yes, I know. I only …"

"Karl is not the same fur you knew. I realize you may find that hard to believe, but it's true."

Not really 'getting' where she was going with this, he cocked his head slightly while drawing his brows together a bit. "It may not be as hard as you think, Mrs. Gulo. Our research on him has been very thorough."

"Did you know he was a Christian?"

"I know he has made that claim. I know that several of the furs in the town where he had been residing backed up that claim. I _also_ know that the term 'Christian' can mean practically anything."

"Well, he's not a fake, either, like those televangelist creeps. He's the real deal." Her manner was growing more animated as she spoke. "He believes that God stuff top to bottom, and he lives like it."

"That … 'God stuff'?"

"Yeah. He's totally on the God squad. And in _spite_ of that he's a really nice guy now, too."

_In __**spite**__ of that? What does she mean?_ "Yes, I had gathered most of that from our investigation. Why do you bring it up?"

"He saved my life. More than once." She leaned forward, those incredible eyes bolting him in place. "And he _loves_ me. And I love _him_."

It was as if he could feel the weight of her passion. Her sheer intensity all but pushed the mongoose into his seat. "Again, Mrs. Gulo, I … I believe you. Implicitly. His actions have spoken most eloquently in that regard. Were you aware that he donated over half a billion dollars to our operating budget, and did so without our knowing it?"

"Huh. Yeah, he mentioned something like that … though he didn't give me actual figures. Said he'd paid back twice what he took." She shook her head. "I knew he was rich, but … damn. Half a _billion?_ Not million?"

"Correct."

"Well … okay, do you know about what he did to that Cartel bunch? He cleaned 'em out. They were almost completely disorganized by the time he …"

Rajid held up a paw. "Yes, Mrs. Gulo. We know all about that. We followed his progress quite closely, aiding in the aftermath where we could. Beo … Karl was able to operate in areas we could not access, and get to targets we couldn't even find. He eliminated almost ninety-five percent of the leadership. His actions were, plainly stated, of heroic proportions."

"Oh. Okay, you do know."

"Better than you do, I feel quite certain." He cleared his throat, rested one elbow on the table and inclined his very correct self toward her a few degrees. "And while this is a fascinating conversation, I am sure, it is serving only to confuse me thus far."

Her eyes never left his. "Why?"

"Because you seem to feel, for some reason, that Karl needs a cheerleader; or at least a publicist."

She sat back in her chair. "I hadn't really thought of it that way, but I guess you're right."

"_That_ is why I am confused. It is as if you are arguing a character reference for him."

"In a way, I suppose I am. Can you blame me?"

"Ah … nnnno. It is only natural, considering that you love each other. The part I find confusing is why you think it necessary. I harbor no ill feelings toward him at all. In fact, I wanted to see whether I could recruit him to join our team again. His talents would be invaluable. That is one reason why I find the current situation so intolerable."

"… Current 'situation'?"

"Yes. Although I am sure you must be much more worried than we are."

"… What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

The mongoose's muzzle opened in surprise, closed, opened again. He cleared his throat. "I am talking about Karl's capture."

"So am I!"

"Ah … well, then … Why did you think it would be productive to contact _us?_"

Her confusion at his question telegraphed clearly. He expanded on his statement. "We have not found him yet, either."

"You mean _you_ don't have him?"

"I? Good Lord, no! You thought _the ISB_ was holding him?"

"Yes!"

"Absolutely not! He was abducted from our meeting. I thought that was what you came here to discuss."

"No! No, that can't … How did … Wait. Wait …" She held one paw open toward him while pressing the other to her forehead. "He went to _your_ meeting. That's the last place he told me he was going."

"Yes. He did. But he was not the only one. We were attacked. Four of my agents were killed, and Karl was taken."

"Taken."

"Yes. They had some method of electrically charging these small spikes. We recovered quite a few of them and …"

Wendy wasn't hearing him. His statement had reduced all other sound to white noise. _Karl was __**taken?**__ All this time I thought the ISB had him, but that turns out to be wrong?_ She looked up, re-focusing her eyes, and asked, "Who?"

Her question cut him off mid-sentence, but he recovered smoothly. "The group that took him was the Trenchant Fur Network. But they …" He flinched when she rocketed from her seat and took a step toward him.

"**NOOO!** They can't! It's not true! They _can't_ have him!" She seemed a towering figure, radiating a numbing mixture of fear and rage and hatred; and Rajid, all but molded to his chair, tried to make himself as small a target as possible. But then she grabbed her head, made a choking sound, and crumbled to the floor.

From his unseen vantage point, Lee stood, ready to run to her, but with difficulty held himself back. She had told him she'd call him by name if she needed him, and to keep out of sight otherwise. It irked him, but he stayed put.

Rajid was on his feet in an instant, and bent to help her, but she batted his paws away. "Don't! Don't touch me! Leave me alone!"

"Is this a symptom of your chronic illness? Should I summon a doctor?"

"Just. Shut. Up." Her barrier fell to shards under the emotional stress. She'd only been holding it at about half strength while she tried to gauge whether the ISB fur was being straight with her. Now the storm of emotions whirling in her head was trying to split it right down the middle, and the effort it took to patch her protection back together was considerable.

The mongoose stood there, feeling totally helpless, while she collected herself. It took most of a minute, but she regained her seat and her composure. Then she looked at him levelly and said, "Sit, please."

He did.

"I want all the details."

"Very well." He was in no frame of mind to refuse her smallest request.

"Are you absolutely certain the TFN has him?"

"They _had_ him. But at this point the TFN may not exist as a viable threat to the general peace much longer."

"… Explain those statements."

"Ah … During our meeting, the TFN attacked." Wendy's eyes were crystals of frozen nitrogen. He faltered a bit, looking at anything but her face. "They had eight armored personnel carriers. Three of them got away, taking Karl with them. We couldn't track them at the time, and so did not know where they took him. A few days later we intercepted a kind of general distress signal sent out to their remote cells. We were able to follow them when they traveled back to the headquarters. However, when we got there, the DoD had already taken over. We didn't reveal ourselves because …"

She held up a paw. "The Department of Defense?"

"Yes."

"This headquarters you mention… was it a compound in western Virginia?"

"Uh … yes." He met her eyes then. "How did …"

"You mean _you_ were there at that place, too?"

"I … how did you know about that?"

She sighed in ultimate frustration. "The TFN was following _me_ when I left Chicago. Lee, ah, took me to a secure location. He set up surveillance at … at my home, to see if he could get a line on them."

"Your home? You are referring to that mansion in Vermont?"

"Yes." Her eyes narrowed even more. "How did you know?" She snapped her fingers and said, "Never mind. Of course you knew. You found Karl. One of your agents came out after the terrorists and … and …" Her gaze focused on something a very long way away. "That was the TFN, too. Karl thought it was them. They tracked him to my house and attacked us." Almost in a whisper, she added, "Always the TFN. So many of them. They were always after him."

"Yes. The operative in question was one of my direct reports. He had been monitoring Karl's movements, and did what he could to help."

"I see." She paused, staring at the floor. "Karl told me … at the time he said … he said that if that … if he hadn't warned us, we'd both be dead." Looking up at Rajid, she asked, "Would you … thank him for me when you see him?"

"I shall."

She drew a deep breath, followed by a long, slow sigh. "… So anyway, they showed up, looking for me. When they left, Lee had them followed. They went to their headquarters. But some other gang had attacked them already, and killed the leader."

"Yes, Madame Schmedtte. She has been in Interpol's Top Ten Most Wanted for years."

"So you knew. How?"

"We listened in on some of the DoD's conversations while they were pacifying the compound."

She stared at him for a moment, then said, "It's no _wonder_ they don't want to work with you people."

"That is not really fair."

"Whatever." She waved a paw. "Go on. What else? Don't skip anything."

"We determined after weighing all the facts that the other gang had come specifically to get Karl away from …"

"What?"

"… The other group. They wanted Karl."

"_**WHAT?"**_

"Ah … yes. That is why they attacked. Apparently Madame Schmedtte was unwilling to release him and they fought."

"So that was over … _**Karl?**_ _He_ was the prisoner?" She stood up and spun toward the back of the food court.** "Leeeeee!"**

Seconds later, Lee Evans trotted over to her. He glanced back and forth between them. "I heard."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know! All I knew was that they had come after a prisoner of hers. I assumed it was gang-related, and that they were freeing a comrade." He flinched then, as Rajid had, at the anger and frustration radiating from the vixen.

"You said the prisoner had been** _tortured!_"**

Lee clenched his eyes shut. _Oh, Lord, this is __not__ happening!_ "That's what the servants said, but I don't know to what extent …" He thought quickly. "He was alive at the time, and he heals readily, so it's possible he might …"

Wendy whirled back to Rajid. "Who are they?"

There was that flinch again. He just couldn't help it. Never had he personally experienced such a towering rage before, and considering he used to work with Omicron Platoon – specifically Rommel Felisky – that was saying something. "We are, ah, still working on that."

"You don't _**know?**_"

"Ah … we, um, have a few … we have narrowed it down to three or four possibilities. We are still tracking down the leads and lines of information."

"So this was all for nothing!"

"This meeting? Oh, I think not. You are no longer laboring under the impression that the ISB is holding your husband. The truth is _never_ 'for nothing'."

She sank down onto the hard plastic seat, her face as still and stiff as Antarctic ice. "So you lost him. And then the TFN lost him. And you don't know where he is?"

Slowly, Rajid shook his head. "We have reason to believe that he is no longer in the country, but as far as exact locations are concerned … ah … no."

She sort of seemed to deflate. All the fire went out of her eyes and Lee had to put out a paw to keep her from toppling out of the chair. He glanced over at Rajid and said, "I think you'd better go now."

The mongoose stood, but didn't move right away. "Mr. Evans?"

Lee gave him his attention as he put an arm protectively around Wendy's shaking shoulders.

"Mr. Evans, I fear this meeting did not go the way any of us had imagined."

"You can say that again."

"At such time as Mrs. Gulo has had the opportunity to collect herself and think through what she learned here, I would like to reschedule."

"… Why?"

"Because my agents really are working very hard to find Be … Karl. It would be in everyone's best interests to get him back here safely."

"By 'here' you mean what?"

"In this country, a free fur, and out of the paws of whichever lunatic has him."

Wendy's sobs grew louder.

The mongoose continued, "Out of respect for Karl and his wife, I will be very sure to keep her posted on our progress. And perhaps she can shed some light on the group that may have taken him."

Lee's face told Rajid what he thought of that idea. "How in the world could she do that?"

"They have been together for quite some time now. The Gamma I remember would not be at all attracted to someone he could not talk to, no matter how beautiful she might be. Ergo, they talked, probably a lot. He may have made mention of some incident that could help us."

"I see." He glanced down at the crumpled vixen. "Mr. Rajid, I will take your request under consideration. That's all I can promise now."

"Very well. Then I will apprise you of anything we discover, and you can relay the information to Mrs. Gulo."

"Wendy."

"… Pardon?"

"She prefers just to be called Wendy. It's a little idiosyncrasy of hers."

"Oh. Very well, then, I bid you a good day." And he left.

##


	4. Unpleasant Truths Part B

_**Chapter 2 – Unpleasant Truths – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Wednesday 6 September 2017 – 9:30am **_

Debbye put her teacup down carefully, gave the vixen a worried look and asked, "Are you sure about that? Would it be safe?"

Wendy listened to the emotions spilling off her friend.

… _concern … fear … love … uncertainty … protectiveness …_

"The only ones who knew my name and where I lived were the Trenchant Furs and the Knights. According to _**your**_ _**husband**_ they're all dead or in prison." She blinked slowly, gauging her friend's reaction. "That's how I read it, anyway."

The squirrel leaned back in the big, overstuffed chair, pulled her tail up into her lap, and started combing her fingers through it. It wasn't exactly a nervous habit, but it was something she did from time to time when she had a decision to chew on. "I guess … I guess I could get Lee to check that out."

… _hope … hesitancy … uncertainty … fear … _"Would you?"

"Yeah." Her teeth toyed with her lower lip briefly. "If he's comfortable with how the 'mopping up' is going, then sure. If you really want to."

"I just want to go home."

"Well I don't blame you there."

Wendy stretched herself out on the sofa and closed her eyes, letting her arm flop over her face. Debbye observed the gesture and asked, "You're not getting another of those headaches are you?"

… _concern … sudden fear …_ "No, thankfully. Haven't had even a hint of one in twelve days." She peeked at the squirrel from under her arm. "Don't worry about it."

"Right. That's good." Debbye swung her feet around to the floor and stood in one well-oiled motion that grabbed Wendy's attention. This time, though, there wasn't the regret that she'd previously experienced. Of course she still found the other girl attractive – very attractive – but she found that it didn't lead to the same sorts of thoughts she'd had before. _Well. Maybe I'm what you'd call a one-fur woman now, huh?_ But that plunged her right back into the abyss of worry she'd been trying to climb out of the last day and a half.

After Wendy's disastrous visit with that ISB fur, Lee had done his best to assure her that they _would_ find her missing husband. He was very familiar with the sundry intelligence communities, and gave her a few bits of inside information about what they could expect to hear and why. And she tried to take it all in and let it comfort her. She really did. But just suspecting that Karl could be under the control of someone who wanted him dead twisted her insides into impenetrable knots.

##

_** 4:30pm **_

"Sweetheart," said Lee, "if she's got her head set to go back to the Inn, I say we ought to let her. It should be safe."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. You wouldn't believe the inroads we've made on the TFN in the last few weeks. We've had full run of their headquarters. Once our cryptologists cracked their communication grid, we got lines on every cell in the country. We're starting to run out of room to put them all."

"Good grief. How many have you arrested?"

"Almost a thousand."

Debbye nearly dropped her PA. "A _thousand?"_

"Yeah. They've had two whole departments doing nothing but rounding them up. Leavenworth and two other prisons are nearly full. I understand we're working a deal with Maricopa County now."

"Huh. Uh … well, okay. If that's what she wants to do, and you don't have a problem with it."

"Really, I don't. I think it would be good for her to get back into familiar surroundings, especially as worried as she is about Karl."

"Eh. Might be right about that."

"Is she there?"

"She's always, 'here', she's just not close at the moment. She went for one of her walks."

"I hope she isn't considering anything rash."

"If by 'rash' you mean 'self-destructive', I don't think so. She just misses her husband." _The same way I would, in her place._ "She also said for you not to bother dropping her off. She wants to rent a car and drive back."

"Really. Huh."

"I think she just wants to have some time to herself for a while."

"I can see that. Probably a good idea."

"She wanted to know if she could leave tonight."

"… … … "

"Lee? Something wrong?"

"Has she had a nap today?"

"Not that I know of."

"She planning to drive all night?"

"Oh! No, no. She just wants to get to Pittsburgh. Said she had some loose ends to tie up in that area. She used to work around there."

"That's right. She used to live in Butler. That's, what, twenty klicks or so?"

"I don't know."

"Well, if that's what she wants to do, I say more power to her. Whatever helps her cope."

"Good. I'll tell her as soon as she gets back."

##

_** Saturday 9 September 2017 – noon **_

Long aisles of oak, ash, and maple cast their shadows onto the narrow, dappled road that led to the Inn. As she guided her rental van out from under the trees and into the south end of the Meadow, three deer jumped off the road and into the cool shade of the wood. She missed it, though. Slowing her progress, she coasted to a halt at the foot of the long, curving drive so that she could look at the massive house. Turning the car off, she sat and gazed at it, seeing as if for the first time all the repairs Karl had effected on her behalf. The white clapboard gleamed, new windows sparkled in the bright sun, and verdigris peeked out here and there on the dull burnished copper of the roof.

_So many memories here; and so many of them made in such a relatively short period of time._

She put the car in gear and trundled up the drive. Pulling around back to the rear entrance beside the kitchen, she parked as close to the porch as she could. Just in case someone did happen to drive by, there would be no telltales. She didn't want anyone to know she was back, at least not yet. And she definitely wanted to get the unloading done in solitude.

Wednesday night had seen her driving up to Pittsburgh, as she'd told Debbye. But it wasn't to see anyone in particular; that was nothing but a convenient cover story. Her goal had been one of the caches in Karl's list, and she cleaned it out, lock, stock and weapons magazine. Then, after a very fitful night's sleep, she drove east and a little north to Binghamton, New York, and the university there. An otherwise unremarkable maintenance building on the campus near Onondaga Hall gave her access to one of the caches where her alternate identity was kept. When she left, the van was riding significantly lower on its suspension.

Of course Karl would have had no way of guessing that the TFN would be essentially out of business at this time. His plan had been for her to stay in hiding, away from the ISB. But then he'd been wrong about _their_ intentions as well. She'd picked that up loud and clear when talking with that Rajid character. He was, at least, honest. Sneaky, yes, but he hadn't told her anything untrue.

Unpacking took two hours, but much of that was because she needed to hide all the guns and ammo; when she was through, several of the secret passages bore a passing resemblance to armories. She worked steadily, concentrating on the task at paw, resolutely **not** thinking about Karl. Of course that made him the 'blue elephant' in her mind, but she managed to dance around the issue with some small measure of success. When the van stood empty she climbed up to the second floor and her room there, noting when she opened the closet that her clothes had been sealed into plastic hanging storage docks. She hadn't picked up on that the last time she was here, but then that had been a very short visit.

She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the smooth wood of the doorframe_. So much hope, even then. I just __knew__ he'd get away, or not get caught, or pull off some other miracle._ Biting the inside of her jaw to keep from crying, she took her overnight bag into the Bath and arranged her toiletries on the vanity.

##

_** 4:00pm **_

The little bell over the door announced her arrival to anyone in Quinn's general store, but since only the proprietor himself was present, the ruckus it raised was localized. He peeked over the top of his paper, then startled and dropped it into his lap. "Miz Wendy?"

"Hullo, Quinn." She walked over and took a chair close to him. "I'm back in town. Thought I'd drop by and say, 'Hi' before the rumors started."

He looked her over keenly. "Seems like to be ya been undah tha weathah. Lookin' a mite thin."

"It's been … an interesting few months, I will admit."

"Anythin' ya care ta talk on?"

"Yeah, actually. If I don't talk to somefur I think I'll just explode, and I believe I can trust you to keep the details to yourself."

"That I will. If'n ya need a shouldah ta cry on or an ear ta bend, I'm ya fur." He nodded toward the front door. "Mebbe want ta flip tha sign around ta **CLOSED**, first, 'less ya want tha details ta be public."

She did that and then returned to her chair. "First, you need to know that Karl has been … captured … by some really, really bad people."

His brows drew together, making his craggy features bunch up. "Ayah, we all wondahed abaout thet. An' afore ya get a ways along thet road, I need ta be askin', would ya mind if I told tha Parson?"

"Parson?"

"Alan Grey, what is Karl's pastor. He'd want ta know."

"Oh. Him." She thought that over and shrugged. "He's a nice enough guy, I guess … but can he keep a secret? Generally speaking?"

"Bettah than most."

"Fine with me, then." _Not that I think prayer is gonna do one damn bit of good, but whatever._

"So who is it thet got 'im?"

"We don't know. Yet."

"We?"

"Friends of mine I've been, uh, working with, I guess you could say. Muckety-muck with the DoD. Hang on … I think you met 'em. They came to your store once last year. She needed some facial brushes."

"Oh, them. Tha Evanses, b'lieve they was. Cat an' a squirrel? Right handsome couple?"

"Yeah, that's them. Dang, Quinn, that's a hell of a memory you got."

"Hard ta forget a couple like them. Politest furs I'd met in a while."

"Yeah. Well, anyway …"

##

_** 9:00pm **_

Supper was over and cleaned up. What little unpacking remained was done. She had been through all her belongings; she tried to check her emails, but found the account closed due to lack of activity; and she'd walked around the old house twice. She checked on the treasure chest, finding it completely unchanged, and removed a small quantity of silver coins. She wanted sometime to get a better look at them than the flashlight could afford. But now …

Now she really didn't have anything else to occupy herself. She retrieved the substantial snack she knew she'd need later and then slowly made her way up to her rooms, trailing one paw along the gleaming banister, noting again the superb job of refurbishing. The house was immaculate. It could open for business tomorrow night, if she got a few more items of fresh food to go with what she'd picked up at Quinn's. She didn't really have the inclination, though.

In her room, on her bed, she lay back and stared through the ceiling for a bit, and let her mind wander.

Unloading on Quinn had been somewhat cathartic, but mostly it just put her worst fears into words, firming them up in her mind.

What was Karl going through, right now, right this very minute? Was he warm? Was he wounded? Sick? Scared?

Was he still alive?

If they'd been trying to kill him for years, why did she even entertain any hope at all that they hadn't already dispatched him?

No. She mustn't think such things. That TFN bitch had tortured him, not killed him outright. Maybe the others would, too.

Was that a reasonable, even a _sane_ thing to hope for? That the fur who embodied the other half of her soul would remain alive, only to be tortured? That was no choice! She just wanted him safe! Was that too much to ask?

Apparently so.

_I can't **do** this!_

She rolled over and reached toward the night stand and her PA. With sharp, jabbing motions, she dialed the number Hemanth Rajid had given her. He picked up in two rings. "Rajid."

"Mr. Rajid, I need to know what you've found out."

"… Ah. Mrs. Gulo. Wendy, rather. I have seven agents working on that problem as we speak."

"But did you find out anything _today?_"

"Anything substantial, or anything at all?"

"_**Any**_thing."

"Ehh … there was an informant that one of my agents met with tonight. I do not have the full report yet, but his story was that his cousin thought he had seen a fur matching Karl's description being loaded onto a private jet aircraft at a small airport in Massachusetts."

"Would you please call me as soon as you know for sure?"

"I will. You have my word."

"Thank you." And she broke the connection.

Her arm flopped out to the side and the PA landed on the counterpane. She didn't move for several minutes, but then slowly got up, went to the Bath, and brushed her teeth. She couldn't remember if she'd already done that, but it wouldn't hurt to do it again.

Slipping out of her clothing, she stood rigid in the center of the room for a moment, then padded over to gaze into the large, oval mirror beside the dresser. _ Thin, girl. __**Way**__ too thin._ Examining herself critically, she decided that it was time for a program of weight gain. She massed barely forty kilos right now, and that was about ten shy of her fighting weight.

The night being very mild, she opted not to don a gown, and slipped between the sheets after folding the heavier covers back, flipping off the light in passing. On her side, one leg crooked up a little more than the other, one arm under her pillow, she stared across the expanse of bed. The moon was waning, but still nearly full, and its light cast sharp shadows on the polished hardwood floor that gave the room a soft, if somewhat eerie, glow.

_He should be here. He should be __right here__, beside me, and we should be talking. We should be talking about the day, about reopening the Inn, about getting our lives here re-started. And then we should make love for three or four hours._ She pulled a long breath and blew it slowly out. _But that isn't going to happen, is it? He's __**not**__ here. And he's not here because of you. Because you were willing to let him hare off on that fool's errand … because you didn't talk sense into him … because you didn't convince him to wait things out._

This line of thought was one she'd avoided. Whether subconsciously or not, she knew it was territory she feared.

_He's not here. He is in the paws of his enemies because … because **you** were a **coward**. You knew he might get caught – knew he probably would get caught. But you were too much of a weakling to take a little pain and discomfort in order to keep him safe._

There it was.

_You don't deserve him. You don't deserve his love. You betrayed him to his death._

She buried her face in the smooth, white linen and let the tears flow until no more would come.

##


	5. Delaying The Inevitable Part A

_**Chapter 3 – Delaying the Inevitable – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur  
****when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled.  
****For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort,  
****that we are likely to step out of our ruts  
****and start searching for different ways or truer answers.**

_**-M. Scott Peck** _

##

_** Sunday 11 September 2017 – 2:30pm **_

It was quiet, here on the rear porch, and so the buzzing of her PA startled Wendy out of a brown study. She fished it out of a deep pocket and looked at the display, her eyebrows rising in recognition. Flicking it on, she found herself face to face with Debbye Evans. "Well. Good afternoon."

"Hi, Wendy."

"Did you find out something about Karl?"

"Ah … no."

"Oh. Then why the call?"

"Well … um …"

The seconds dragged out. "It's your dime, y'know."

"Yeah. Listen, how are you fixed up for guests there?"

"Guests? Uh …" She sat forward, rested her elbows on her knees. "Actually, I'm about as ready as I ever was, from a facilities standpoint. But right now I'm not _emotionally_ ready to bow and scrape and cater to the needs of some whiny …"

"Whoa, whoa! Didn't mean to get your wind up there. I don't think you'll mind these two."

Ears pricked forward. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Chris Foxx called us this morning and wanted to know if we could get in touch with you."

"Chris? And may I assume Sabrina will be with him?"

"Yep. The old number for the Inn was disconnected, or he would have called you himself. But I thought I'd call you first and see if it was all right. He couldn't understand why your phone would be out, so I told him just a teensy bit about what you've been up against over the last few months."

Wendy's voice sounded a little vague as she asked, "Who else would be coming up?"

"Just him and Sabrina." She paused and said, "No, wait … _he_ and Sabrina. I should use a different construction; that one always confuses me."

"For some reason I'm pleased you caught that."

"Heh. You're welcome."

"Okay, if it's just the two of them … tell 'em to come ahead. When are they planning to show up?"

"Thursday, if everything's set. Chris said they wanted to stay through Sunday. It's a birthday treat for Sabrina."

"Oh, that's right. She's turning forty-two this month."

"Yep. I'm still the only one in the Clique on the bright side of forty."

"Practically a cub, you are."

"Eh. The workout I'm getting from George and Linda lately, I'm starting to feel the years. At least Michelle has started sleeping through the night now."

Wendy didn't say anything to that. Before the silence could get uncomfortable, Debbye said, "Since you've got no problem with it, I'll just go ahead and tell Chris to do it."

"Yeah. … Yeah, you do that. Tell 'em I'll look forward to seeing 'em."

"Okay." She paused for a couple of breaths and then asked, "How are you doing, um, otherwise?"

"Like shit with a side of death. How do you _think_ I'm doing?"

"… I'm sorry. If there's anything …"

"Yeah. And … uh …" She paused. "Waitaminnit. You told him … what did you say you'd said?

"Huh?"

"You said something about what I'd been doing."

"Oh. That's right. Just that you hadn't been there for a few months because of some trouble with some really bad guys, but that it was all over now."

"Did you tell 'em about Karl?"

"You mean about him being … gone?"

"Yeah."

"Ah … no. Didn't really think it was my place to do that."

"Good. Don't."

"Okay. Um … how come …"

"Hey, listen, I really need to go, okay?"

"… Right. Bye."

Wendy closed the PA and dropped it into her lap. Pulling her feet up onto the glider, she wrapped her arms around her knees, cradled her forehead on them, and concentrated on keeping her eyes dry.

##

_** Wednesday 14 September 2017 – 4:30pm **_

Rajid glanced over at his desk phone when it rang, noted the caller's number, and sighed deeply as he picked it up. "Good afternoon, Wendy."

"What have you got?"

"And a very pleasant day to you as well."

"Cut the crap, Hemanth. What do you know?"

"Nothing I did not know yesterday."

"Nothing from that guy in Germany?"

"No."

"Nothing from the lead Wayne's following up?"

"No."

"What about that mob boss Trina was …"

"No, Wendy. Nothing there either. I told you I would call you if I heard anything. I promise. As soon as I know, you will know."

There was silence on the other end for a few breaths. "Can you make an educated guess?"

He blew a long and frustrated breath. "All of my educated guesses are being followed up. Right now. This minute. As we converse."

"But …"

"Wendy, please! I will call you within ten seconds of learning anything useful. Please trust me."

The pause that followed turned into three or four; he could hear her breathing. "Okay. You promise?"

"Faithfully."

"Thank you."

"You are most welcome."

She flipped the PA off.

##

_** 6:10pm **_

High clouds had been playing tag with each other all day, and their feathery expanses made this day's sunset spectacular. Most of the prettiest parts had come and gone already, but the dark magenta horizon took on a gold-edged hue as the sun disappeared. It reminded her forcefully of many of the sunsets she and Karl had watched together during their stay in Alberta.

She was _**tired**_ of having things remind her of Karl. It only underscored her guilt in the matter. Moving across the house to the rear porch put her in a position where she couldn't see any more of the sunset.

Curling up in one of the big Adirondack chairs, Wendy took a long breath and closed her eyes. There was so much 'antsy' bouncing around inside her that the house, even as big as it was, felt claustrophobic. Earlier she had set up the central sound system to select tracks at random from its library. The Brandenburg Concerto Number 3 in G Major was currently lilting through the open door to the kitchen, a soothing piece that usually helped her avoid deep thought if she wanted. But Karl was fond of Bach, too. This number was on the limited selection he'd had in stock in his Quebec house. She sniffed and wiped at her nose.

_[ [ i greet you, daughter ] ]_

Her eyes flew open. Though the light was dying she could see him clearly, standing at the edge of the wood, near the path to the Creek. "So. Is it you again?"

_[ [ is it i? your question is intriguing ] ]_

"That's what you said last time." Shifting in the chair, she turned in his direction. "Hey, you want to take part in a little experiment?"

_[ [ what is an 'experiment'? ] ]_

"That's where I have a hypothesis and I try it out on a physical level to see whether or not it is valid."

He didn't answer her for quite a few seconds as he turned this information over in his mind. At least that's what Wendy assumed he was doing. Finally she heard:

_[ [ i think i understand what you want ] ]_

"Really? That makes one of us, then."

_[ [ begging your pardon daughter, but what do you mean? ] ]_

"Skip it. Listen, what I want to know is whether you can pass information back and forth to others like you."

_[ [ what others? ] ]_

"You know. Other ferals who can communicate this way. I know that not all of you can do it, but I was hoping that you could … get a message out for me."

_[ [ ah … and what is this message, daughter? ] ]_

"My … my mate was … taken. Captured. And I think he is being held and … and hurt by some bad people. People like 'those who hate' that you told me about before when …" She stopped, surprised by his reaction. He had sprung to his feet and taken a few quick steps backward. With one more penetrating gaze flung her way, he disappeared into the wood.

"Hello?" She stood and walked to the edge of the porch, hopped down to the earth and trotted over to the trees. "Where'd you go?"

A couple minutes of fruitless searching left her angry and frustrated. _What'd I say? It's not like he never heard the term before; he coined it! Damn it, why'd he run off like that? That's not like him. Not like him at all._

She made her way back inside, stomping up to the room she planned for the Foxxes to use during their stay. It could use another cleaning, she decided.

##

_** 8:25pm **_

Supper had been put off, and put off again while Wendy stayed busy sprucing up … though it wasn't really necessary. She just couldn't seem to calm down. But finally her stomach insisted, so she had whipped up a generous pot of chili, thickly laced with shredded chicken, and hotter than most furs could comfortably eat. That was another benefit of her new-and-improved physiology: the pain caused by applying capsaicin to her tongue was almost instantly damped, leaving only the more pleasant sensations behind. No longer did she wonder at Karl's seeming love affair with hot food. She was working through her third bowl when she felt the fox once more. Putting down her spoon, she rose and padded over to the window. He was at the edge of the porch, just at the limit of the fluorescent glow leaking into the night.

_[ [ please come out here, daughter ] ]_

She did so without hesitation, leaving the kitchen door open behind her. "I'm sorry about earlier. I don't know what I said, but …"

_[ [ i have received a Word for you ] ]_

"… A … Word?" The capitalization came through loud and clear. "What? Word? What's that?"

_[ [ a Word comes from the Maker … never before have i received a Word for one of you … always the Word is for us … not this time ] ]_

A deep frown creased her forehead. "The Maker? Are you talking about God?"

_[ [ the Maker … the One who Makes … and Unmakes … the One who gives life … and death ] ]_

Her fur stood up all the way down to her tail. "Are you telling me that God talks to you? Personally?"

_[ [ i do not understand this idea of 'God' that you are sending … nor do you … you do not know the Maker … yet the Maker knows you … the Maker gives you this Word ] ]_

The fox gave an odd, one-legged genuflection, and then stared at her for a long, long time, but she didn't dare move. She couldn't. This was all just a bit too surreal. Finally he continued:

_[ [ your mate lives ] ]_

Her heart threatened to burst from her chest. "Karl? You **know** this? Are you sure?"

_[ [ this is the Word … your mate lives … you must go to him … you **will** go to him, or he will die … this is the Word ] ]_

"Go to him? Yes, yes! I want to do that! Where is he?"

Another really long staring contest ensued, at the end of which, she heard:

_[ [ go to your mate … it is a needful thing … he must live ] ]_

"Yes, yes! He must! I knew that already. I can't let him die. I **won't** let him die, not while I still breathe. But I don't know where he is. Can you tell me that?"

_[ [ go to your mate ] ] _And he melted into the darkness_._

She took a step, lifted one paw, whispered, "No." Then she leaped off the porch, mentally casting about for him. "No! Don't go!"

Nothing. Not a shred.

"_**NOOO!**_ You _**can't**_ leave it at that! I don't _know_ where he _is!_ Tell me where he is!"

The answering silence was the loudest and most profound lack of noise she'd ever heard.

She sank to her knees, tears of frustration filling her eyes. "I don't know where he _is!_ How can I _go_ to him if I can't _find_ him?"

Eventually she went back in the house. Much later she fell into an exhausted but deeply troubled sleep, chasing Karl's ghost over thousands of klicks of gray and unknowable country.

##


	6. Delaying The Inevitable Part B

_**Chapter 3 – Delaying the Inevitable – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Thursday 15 September 2017 – 9:30am **_

"I'd forgotten how pretty this place is."

"Me, too, Kitten. No place like home, but this is just spectacular."

Sabrina unlimbered her PA and punched the speed-dial for Wendy's unit. It was answered in a few seconds. Wendy's grin, though it seemed in some way forced to the skunkette, was certainly wide enough. "Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes."

"Back at ya, girl. Been too long."

"What's your ETA?"

"How's twenty-five seconds grab you?"

The vixen yelped and jumped up. "Really? Hot damn!" She ran to the foyer, yanking open the big door in time to see the Foxx's car tooling up the drive. They pulled up in front of the wide porch, and Wendy hopped down the steps to Sabrina's door, opening it before the car had quite stopped. Sabrina clambered out and the two friends hugged each other tightly. They only broke the clench when Chris had ambled around the front of the car, and then Wendy glommed onto him, adding a quick kiss to the side of his muzzle. He lifted an eyebrow at that but Sabrina just giggled. "Hey, get your own."

"My own?"

"Yeah," said Sabrina, appropriating Chris' arm. "This one's taken.

Wendy slumped for just a second, but then turned bright eyes back to the skunkette. "Uh … right." She took a couple of steps toward the house. "Come on in. Your bags'll be fine for a while, and I want you to see what's been done to the place."

Chris and Sabrina exchanged a quick, puzzled glance, but followed the vixen inside.

##

_** noon **_

Looking up from his plate, Chris asked innocently, "Any more of that chicken to be had?"

Sabrina swatted her husband on the upper arm. "Like you need it. I'm gonna have to roll you out of the kitchen as it is."

He didn't respond to that, not directly anyway. He loved his girl to distraction, and her cooking had definitely improved over the years they'd been together … but never in her most ambitious dreams could she produce a meal to equal what seemed to be ordinary, everyday, standard fare with Wendy.

The vixen observed, "She's right, you know. That appetite of yours is going to play you false in a few years, once your metabolism finks out on you."

Holding up both paws, he said, "Mercy! I know when I'm outflanked."

"And to answer your question, no. You ate it all."

"That's what I was afraid of." He cocked his head and said, "I didn't put away much more than _you_ did, though. And yet, there you sit, skinnier than I've ever known you to get, even when you were a freshman. Whattaya got a tapeworm or something?"

"Or something. It's complicated."

Sabrina cleared her throat, made a funny face and coughed, swallowed and said, "Geez! Sorry. Air pipe in front, swallow pipe in back." She coughed again, and then continued, "What with the dollar tour and all, I forgot, but Debbye said something about some bad guys chasing you off. Care to fill in the blanks?"

Wendy had already thought about what she'd say when the topic came up, and shrugged. "Case of mistaken identity. They thought I was somebody that owed 'em a bundle of money, and were gonna make an example of me. Shot up the house pretty badly."

"How'd you get away?"

"Karl was here, working on the freezer. He, uh, got me away. You know he used to do that sort of thing, ah, regularly."

"Yeah," agreed Chris. "That was his line of work. Or something."

"Right. And I've been lying low until fairly recently. Did Debbye mention anything about the Trenchant Fur Network?"

Sabrina shook her head. "Nope. The what? Trenchant Fur? Who they?"

"Bad guys. Some kind of crime syndicate thingy."

Sabrina dimpled. "Or something?"

Wendy's frown matched her tone. "Are you mocking me, young lady?"

"Heavens, no. That phrase just seems so fitting for this conversation, though."

"How so?"

"Because you're leaving out a lot of detail … or something … while you try to act all nonchalant … or something … about what happened to you … or something."

"Ah-huh." Wendy chose the high road, and continued with her story. "The DoD invaded their headquarters and did some major mopping up. Lee thinks I have nothing to worry about any more, since his buddies got into the TFN communications system. They've been arresting those jerks right and left ever since. And the leader got killed. So, apparently, I'm safe now."

"And you didn't tell us any of this before now because …?"

"Karl said we needed to stay completely off the radar. No comms with anybody, about anything, for any reason. I, uh, didn't follow his rules one time and … it got ugly. I'd been thinking he was just paranoid, but it wasn't like that. They almost _did_ get me then. After that I played it straight. We … we moved to Canada, out to Alberta. Dropped completely off the grid."

"Ooo, it's pretty out there! We went to the Canadian Rockies on vacation a few years ago."

"Yeah. It's pretty."

They waited for her to say something else, and when she didn't Chris asked, "Where is the big lug, anyway? Debbye dropped a hint that you two were an item." He grinned and said, "Can't say I fault his taste."

"Debbye has a big mouth."

Chris and Sabrina sought one another's eyes for a second. She asked, "So is that not true, then?"

Wendy nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's true. I just didn't want her noising it about until we were … um, that is, until we had time for … um …"

The skunkette's eyes sparkled. "Oh, ho! You're a _major_ item!"

Wendy's muzzled fluffed out. "So what if we are?"

"Nothing." Her light, offpaw attitude did nothing to hide her obvious merriment at the vixen's distress. "None of my business." She leaned forward. "But when you two get around to tying the knot, you'd better believe I'll be in the wedding party. I wouldn't miss _that_ for anything!"

Wendy scoured her mind to come up with something to say in her defense. She felt bad about misleading her friend, but there was just too great an emotional overburden to deal with right now.

Chris said, "I'm having a little trouble scopin' you out, Windy."

"What?"

"I can't think why you'd be upset over us knowing about you and Karl. Also … you never did say where he was. If you two are tight, I'd think he'd want to stay close."

"He's … otherwise occupied just now. I suppose you, um, might call it 'taking care of business'."

"Ah. More of that mysterious 'business' we were just discussing. And you're not at liberty to go into any detail?"

"Um … no."

"Well," said Chris, slapping his knees as he pushed himself away from the table, "enough of that, then. We didn't come up here to snoop or be a coupla wet blankets." Catching his wife's eye, he said, "Thar's gold leaves in them thar hills! And red ones and purple ones, too, and you know we wanted to take a drive around this afternoon and see 'em. You up for tagging along, Windy?"

The vixen thought that over a bit and shrugged. "Beats the snot out of what I've _been_ doing the last few days."

##

_** Saturday 17 September 2017 – 3:30pm **_

Her guests having just disappeared upstairs to engage in a bit of _quality time_, Wendy was puttering around in the kitchen. She was gathering the ingredients for a crème brûlée when her PA sounded off. A pot clattered to the counter and she jerked the unit from her pocket. "Hello? Hemanth? That you?"

"Good afternoon, Wendy."

"You found something?"

"Yes, we have."

"Where is he?"

"I need to discuss that with you in person."

She blinked deliberately a couple of times and said, "Sorry?"

"I am en route to your home as we speak. I will be there in one hour. I just wanted to let you know that I was coming."

"But why …"

"I will explain everything when I get there." And her PA went dead.

One finger poised over the keypad for several long moments before she sighed and snapped it shut.

##

_** 4:30pm **_

Hemanth Rajid's estimated time of arrival was eerily accurate: Wendy was watching from the porch, and rose as three dark, heavy vehicles pulled up in front of the Inn. The trim mongoose emerged from the middle one and trotted up the steps. "Would it be possible to hold our discussion in the library?" He moved on past her.

"Sure. But why'd you have to come all the way out here yourself? I've got guests here right now." She eyed the other furs as they got out of the cars and fanned out in front of the stairs. Several of them carried automatic weapons, and they didn't look especially friendly. Were Karl's fears for her safety vis-à-vis the ISB based in reality after all? Edging quickly toward the door, she asked, "What's with all the muscle?"

Rajid seemed distracted and took a second to answer her. "Oh. Yes. That was to assure that I would arrive unmolested."

"… Say what?"

He held the front door open for her. "May we go inside?" The fellow actually seemed – and she hesitated to think of him this way – he seemed frightened.

"Sure." She led him to the library, glancing up at the door to her friends' room. She couldn't hear any noises, which was probably a good thing. "I've, um, got some tea ready to pour if you're in the mood."

"That would be most welcome. Thank you."

A minute or so passed while Wendy went through the motions of preparing their tea, all the time eyeing the mongoose and wondering what his problem was. He sat on the front edge of the chair, very obviously ill at ease, and received the tea gratefully. She noted that his paws didn't shake. He held it up under his nose and took a deep sniff, whereupon she asked, "Okay, why all the cloak and dagger? Do you _**know**_ where Karl is?"

He set the cup down and nodded. "We have a very good idea of his location. You will not like it."

"I don't like it **_already_**. I **_haven't_ **liked it for a _great_ while now. Knowing the facts won't make me like it any less."

"Very well. He is in Libya."

"Libya? Hang on. Isn't that where that Gafah character is? Military coup and all that?"

"Yes."

"He's not a friend of the U.S. is he?"

"Hardly."

"So it wouldn't be very easy to ask him for help in getting Karl back? Is that what you're saying? I mean, if it's an 'official capacity' issue, I'll go ask him myself."

"Ah … I think that would be an extraordinarily bad idea."

"What? Why? All he can do is say no. I can be persuasive when I need to be."

"Um … I believe you misapprehend the situation. Badly. You see, Hamadi Gafah is the dictator of Libya, yes. And he has annexed or holds sway over all his neighbors and a few other countries as well. But he is also the primary financier of most of the terrorist networks currently active in the Western world."

"… Terrorists? You mean … like the TFN?"

"Indeed, exactly so. The Trenchant Furs operated, to some extent, under his aegis. But they are hardly the only group with which he is affiliated. Do you recall what Karl told you about the Cartel and his activities against them?"

"I do. Is Gafah part of that?"

"When he first consolidated his power in Libya toward the end of the last century he became a member of the Cartel. Now, though, considering how much of their leadership Karl eliminated, he is … you might call him the chief executive officer."

The implications were not lost on the vixen. "Holy shit. So … so he's part of the Cartel – leads the Cartel – and Karl was the Cartel's biggest enemy … crap. Crap, crap, crap. You're right, we can't just ask for Karl back." Her eyes grew round. "Waitaminnit! He's in _charge?_ That means he knows … does he know Karl is there?"

"It was Gafah's operatives who took him from Madame Schmedtte."

"Ohhhhh … shit."

"Yes."

"Hemanth! _How_ are we gonna get him _back?_"

"Ah … that is another matter I need to discuss with you. But first I need for you to understand that what I am about to tell you is highly classified and is connected to matters of national security."

"Oh. Uh, okay. I don't mind, if you don't."

"Very well. We have no diplomatic liaison in Libya, since officially we do not recognize Gafah's control of the country. So there is no avenue there. We recently … ah, unmasked a mole in our department. He was working for the TFN and was the information conduit to Madame Schmedtte. It was through his efforts that Karl was captured."

Wendy's eyes hardened. "Where is he?"

"In a secure location. We _think_ we have pumped all the information out of him that may be extracted, but he may prove useful later. I am afraid you are not at liberty to kill him. In any case, he was nothing more than a pawn. He would not have been worth the time we have already spent on him had it not been for his direct involvement with this case." He drew a deep breath. "But we have since determined that there was another mole."

"Another one? What, a backup guy for the first one?"

"No, not really. The second mole worked directly in Gafah's organization, not with the TFN. She … when she was discovered, she committed suicide. We have been able to gather a lot of information from her workstation, though, so it was not a total loss."

"How is that going to help me get to Karl?"

"It will not. One of the pieces of information we uncovered was that Gafah is aware of your existence."

There was a clock on the wall over Rajid's left shoulder, an old analog piece with a second hand. To Wendy's perception it slowed to a glacial crawl. "… What?"

"His intelligence network is broad and sophisticated. He was able to obtain a copy of your marriage license and at least two different photographs."

"Whuh … za? … How d'you know that?"

"**_Our_ **intelligence network is also rather sophisticated. We believe at this point that he is under the impression that you are a Canadian citizen, or at least that you most lately lived in Alberta, and so that is where he is concentrating his efforts to find you."

The fur prickled all the way to the end of her tail. "_Find_ me? What does he want with _me?_" She knew the answer even as the words escaped, but she had to ask.

"You are Karl's wife. He loves you. If Gafah can get you under his control … well, our best guess is that he would …" He paused and considered her closely. "How are you feeling right now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you feel ill?"

"No. Why is that important?"

"Do you consider yourself to have a weak stomach?"

"Not really. Where are you going with this?"

"I assume Karl told you about the other members of Omicron Platoon?"

"Yeah. Mostly about Phoebe, but he mentioned the others a few times, too. So?"

"They were killed during a raid on one of Gafah's terrorist training camps. It was a set-up. Gafah's soldiers sifted through the wreckage of the camp and retrieved their bodies. He has their heads mounted in a glass case, and placed where Karl can see them. We think he plans to torture you to death in front of Karl, and then mount your head next to the others."

Her mouth was much too dry for swallowing, but she tried anyway. After taking a quick gulp of tea, she whispered, "How do you know this?"

"We have a mole of our own. Until recently he was very tightly constrained in how much he could communicate with us, but that changed. In fear of his life, he escaped Libya yesterday morning and is currently in my headquarters building."

"Does … Did he … Has he seen him?"

"Yes. On two occasions."

"So … is he … still alive?"

"Without doubt. He is in no immediate danger of death."

She had to frown at that. "No? Why are you so sure?"

"That was part of what he told us. Gafah has learned quite a bit about how Karl's body works. He is aware that all but the most mortal wounds will heal, as long as he has access to food. His plan is to keep Karl alive but weakened, in pain and near death, but never actually dying, for as long as he can. Years, perhaps. Even decades."

Wendy buried her face in her paws. It was more horrible than she'd imagined. She'd betrayed him to _worse_ than death. "But … how will we get to him? Hemanth? **_How?_** I don't see any way!"

He leaned forward and rested a paw on her forearm. "You do not see a way because there _**is**_ no way."

In a voice as thin and dry as onion skin she rasped, "I don't believe you."

"This is why I felt that I should tell you in person. We will not be able to extract Karl. We have no way to do it. Gafah's capitol city is one huge fortress. It would take weeks or months to invade and cost thousands of lives, if we even had the force available to do it, which we do not. Libya is a closed society right now. Two out of three furs you meet there are informants, and the rest are too scared to do anything. Gafah's goal was to cow the populace to the point that no one would even _entertain_ rebellious thoughts, much less act upon them, and he has succeeded handsomely. Infiltrating the prison complex where Karl is being held simply is not feasible." He squeezed her arm and leaned back. "I am so very sorry."

Colors dulled. Edges grew fuzzy. Her mental barrier wavered, allowing some of Rajid's own pain to leak by, but she snapped it back up immediately. With an effort she re-focused on the mongoose and choked out, "So you aren't even willing to try?"

"It would be suicide. I cannot ask my people to undertake a mission that is one hundred percent doomed from the start."

_Your people? Wait. I forgot. It's not his job. It's mine. The fox said I had to go to him. All I have to do is find out where he is, exactly, go there, free him, and help him out of Libya. How big is Libya, anyway? And how big is that city where he's being held? And how many furs are we talking about between him and freedom? And what sorts of weapons will I need? And …_

He was still talking. "… understand why I wanted to be here in person, so as to impress upon you the urgency of staying out of sight. Gafah is looking for you. He is not stupid, nor does he employ those who are. If you stay here, he will find you. It is only a matter of time." He rose then and asked, "Do you have another place to go? Could you return to wherever it was that Lee Evans had placed you? We were unable to locate it, so Gafah likely could not either."

Her mental wheels were gearing up. She peered up at Rajid. "What's your best guess for them figuring out where I am?"

"I really could not say. A month, perhaps. Certainly no more than three. It would be best if you were to be gone from here inside two weeks."

A thoughtful nod was his answer. "I can handle that."

"If you need any assistance, I will be more than happy to give it."

The look she gave him was full of resolve, and he found its source a puzzle. "No, that's okay." She pointed at him. "You go along and do what _**you**_ need to do. I'll do what _**I**_ need to do. I'll call you in a week, okay?"

"Very good. I am glad you are taking my advice on that matter. It would not do to wait very long."

They walked together to the foyer where they bid one another a good evening. Wendy leaned against the door, thinking hard for several minutes before her plan had even a hazy outline. She had a whole new batch of problems now, fresh and steaming from the oven, and it was going to take some real creativity to make them into any kind of meal she could swallow.

##


	7. Delaying The Inevitable Part C

_**Chapter 3 – Delaying the Inevitable – Part C**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Monday 19 September 2017 – 8:00am **_

A day's worth of research into the Byzantine welter of contradictions that was modern Libya left Wendy the very picture of frustration. There was nothing else for it. She had to have a way in. And since Lee was unavailable due to some kind of test flight thing …

"Wendy?" Rajid seemed pleased to hear from her. "Good morning. I had not expected you to call for a few more days. What can I do for you?"

"I need a way into Libya."

There was silence on the other end for long enough that she asked, "Hello? Hemanth? You there?"

"I am contemplating your statement."

"Good. Contemplate me a legitimate way into Gafah's capitol city."

"Wendy …"

"Yeah?"

"I had received the impression when I visited you, oh, some thirty-two hours ago that you were listening to what I said. Evidently that is not the case. So please allow me to reiterate, using small words. There. Is. No. Way. In."

Her voice dripping with wry, she answered, "Beggin' yer pardon, guv'nor, but that ain't what yeh said. No. What you **_said_ **was that there was no way for **_you_ **to get in, that there was no way to **_invade_**. I'm not interested in some big invasion, or getting a Special Forces team in or anything like that. Just me."

He went on as if she hadn't spoken. "Reminder Number Two: Gafah knows your name, has photos of you and is actively seeking your demise."

"Why don't you let me worry about that."

_That girl has gone completely off her chum. _ "In good conscience, I cannot."

"Suit yourself. But I'm going, with or without your help."

"Um, Wendy. If I may. As a viable alternative to this venture, I can get you some rope if you have none of your own. That way you can simply hang yourself there at the Inn and save the trouble of going through all the various tortures Gafah is surely planning for such time as he has you in his control."

She didn't even hesitate. "I'll disguise myself."

"Or, since you reside in Vermont, you could go to a gun shop and buy yourself a nice big one with which to blow your brains out. It would be messier than a hanging, but is usually a great deal faster. And if you did it somewhere out in the forest, where the ferals could get to your corpse, your friends would not even have to go to the trouble of a burial."

"I'm pretty good at sneaking around when I want to be. And Karl trained me in some of the martial arts. I'm not defenseless."

"Then, even if by some miracle you _were_ able to get into the city, and even if you **_could_ **manage to find Karl, you cannot simply **_toss_ **him over your shoulder and waltz back out."

"I'll burn that bridge when I come to it."

He drew a deep breath and racked his brain. "Wendy, I beg of you! Think this through! You are certainly not the first to ever go through this. Every war sees its share of grieving widows, but you do not typically see them throwing themselves onto the funeral pyre, as it were. You can get past this. I know you can."

Her voice took on a musing quality. "I guess I can buy my own aircraft if need be, but I don't know how to fly one, so I'd have to hire that out. And I can learn to parachute. Karl said it wasn't any big deal."

"You are paying not the least smidgen of attention to my objections, are you?"

"Nope."

"Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you?"

"I seriously doubt it."

"… Do you speak Arabic?"

"Nope. But Karl does."

He drummed his fingers on his desk for a few moments. "Wendy … why are you doing this? Really."

"Because I don't have any choice."

"Don't … ah … well. Why not?"

"I could tell you but I'd have to kill you."

A smirk tried to inhabit his muzzle, and would have succeeded if the situation had been less serious. "I see. Are you, at the moment, sober?"

"As a judge."

"Then I cannot think of a single sane reason for you to pursue this course of action."

"Well, you aren't me, are you?" She cleared her throat and said, "Look. Maybe you don't want to have anything to do with this. Hell, I don't blame you. In your place, yeah, I'd run. Probably. But one way or another I **_will_ **get to Libya. And if you know of anyone who could help me, no matter how peripherally, I'd be grateful."

"But what if …"

"No. The longer I wait, the more hell he goes through. It was on my account that he contacted you. I'm the reason he was at that meeting. So it's my responsibility to extricate him from this mess."

"You? I do not understand. How was it because of you?"

"He thought my condition might have been … aggravated by … um, by contact with him."

"… Really."

"Yeah. Y'know, he explained to me about the scientists who were running the project and how there weren't any notes left to speak of, but he thought that if he had more data he could … I dunno. Help me. I don't know the particulars. I doubt he did."

"And what, exactly, is your condition?"

"I don't know. You did all the backtracking. You talked to the same specialists I did. You know as much. But Karl was grasping at straws. I wasn't getting any better. He couldn't stand it. And I let him go." _There. I said it. Out loud._

Rajid rubbed a finger back and forth over his lower lip as he thought about this. "I suppose that does make sense, after a fashion. Normally I would say that he had better judgment. He stayed completely hidden for a very long time, and I feel strongly that he could have kept out of sight if he wanted to."

"I agree. But with me in tow … maybe not so much."

"And yet he was the one who requested the meeting. He put himself at risk in doing so, though it is likely that he thought the danger much greater than it really was."

"So you see, Hemanth, it really is my fault."

"That is debatable. But touching on that topic, if your symptoms are as bad as all that, how do you imagine you will be able to get Karl out of Gafah's stronghold? Curling up on the ground and retching is not a recognized tactic of covert operations."

"I'm better, mostly. That's another reason, see? If we'd just waited a few more weeks, he'd still be with me. But I let him go."

"You are better? But at our first meeting …"

"I know, I know! That's why I said 'mostly'. But I'm _getting_ better steadily. And I'm going after him. If you can help, great. If not, I'll muddle through."

"I cannot commit any of my forces to this venture."

"And you don't know anyfur else who might just be squirrely enough to want a piece of the action?"

"I do not bel–" He caught himself. "Ah … squirrely, you say? Actually, I might know someone at that."

"Oh? Who?"

A smile growing on his narrow face, Rajid mulled over the options. "Yes. That might work nicely. And it would be precisely the sort of thing he would relish doing … although possibly not if he thought it would help _me_."

"Huh? What're you talking about?"

"Just this. There is a fellow of my acquaintance who at one time did some favors for the ISB. He is … exceptionally skilled at search-and-retrieval operations."

"And he works for you?"

"Hah! No. Under no circumstances."

"Well, who is he? How do I get in touch with him?"

"I will give you a pager number. He may or may not answer it. If he does, tell him who you are and that you have a problem only he can manage."

Wendy was beginning to feel quite confused. "So … I can't know his name?"

"I am not at liberty to pass out that information. He prefers his anonymity, and if he thought that I was offering his services to just anyone, well … his reaction might be unpleasant. He is not the sort of furson that I want to anger."

"Well _now_ you're scaring me."

"Oh, you have no cause to worry. _You_ do not work for the government, and _you_ have a legitimate need. He will probably be charitably inclined toward your predicament."

"Ah-huh. Bad blood between you two?"

"I can neither confirm nor …"

"Yeah, yeah. Heard _that_ before."

"Let us say that he is disinclined to offer me his aid."

"But this guy can get me to Karl?"

"If he feels like it, he can get Karl _for_ you without breaking a sweat."

She suppressed a squeal. 'Jubilation' does not do justice to the feeling that welled up in the vixen. "REALLY? Oh, wow, that would be … Hemanth, you're the best!"

"Do not celebrate yet. You have yet to speak with him."

"Don't worry, I can get him over to the side of the angels! What's his number?"

##

_** 11:00am **_

The waiting was hellish. Rajid had told her that the fur in question lived on the West Coast, but wouldn't say more; he warned her to wait until eight o'clock Pacific Time to make her call. In the last two and a half hours she had constructed and discarded several hundred possible conversations, and now her fingers were having trouble hitting the keys on her PA. Rather than the standard 'ring', there was a periodic buzzing that told her the other end was working. She listened for most of a minute, growing more frantic by the second, but then …

"You need to _lose_ this number, Rajid." The voice was a low snarl.

"Aigh! No, wait! I'm not him!"

Silence. "Who is this?"

"My name is Wendy and I'm in trouble. Really, it's my husband that's in trouble. He was kidnapped …"

"Then why aren't you talking to the FIA?"

"… by terrorists! He's being tortured! I want to go get him but I can't get into Libya, at least not very easily, and I was told that you …"

"STOP!"

She shut up.

"Let's start this again. How did you get my number?"

"From Hemanth Rajid."

"And why did he think I would be _at all_ interested in helping him?"

"It's not him, it's me! Or my husband, anyway."

"How are you involved with Rajid?"

"I thought the ISB had captured him, but that didn't turn out to be true. He … I guess Mr. Rajid felt sorry for me. He's been trying to help. He found out where Karl was."

"Karl?"

"My husband."

"Right. Got that part. How's _he_ connected with that bunch of mental cases?"

"He used to work for them, sort of, a long time ago."

"Uh-huh."

"But he left. They had a falling out."

"I know what _that_ feels like." He tapped a finger on his PA and said, "What did Rajid tell you about me?"

"He said you could help. He said you were the only one he could think of who might have a chance of saving Karl, but I don't see …"

"Why did you think the ISB had your husband?"

"Zuh? Um, I was really sick, and Karl thought he could help if he got some information from them, but he was afraid they'd want to catch him, so …"

"Stop."

Wendy held her tongue.

"Where are you?"

"Vermont."

"Huh. Yeah, that's his district." He fell silent for several moments while Wendy's heart raced. "Okay, tell you what."

"Yes?"

"If you can get out to L.A. by tomorrow night, we can meet and discuss this in more detail. I don't really like doing this sort of thing over the phone."

"Where in L.A.?"

"Call me again from the airport."

"I'm leaving now."

#

As Matt Sinclair closed his PA, he felt Diedra's arms curl up around his waist. "Who was that?"

"I'm not really sure, but I think she may be another casualty of ISB fallout."

His wife sighed. "You really should bury the hatchet with them."

"Oh, it's buried. Geocached, so I can find it if need be."

"That is _**not**_ what I mean."

He gave her a wry chuckle, turned and embraced her, pulling her in close. "I know. I'm just messin' with you."

"So, we will have a guest tomorrow evening?"

"Maybe. I'll meet her at a neutral location and then bring her here by the 'back door'. Standard procedure."

"I'll tell Betty there will be an extra plate for dinner.

##

_** Tuesday 20 September 2017 – 5:20pm **_

LAX was a zoo this time of day. Of course, it was a zoo most of the time, but the noise and heat tended to peak in a regular cycle that coincided with the beginning and end of the work day. Never having been here before, Wendy was more than a little bewildered, but the taxi kiosk was easy enough to spot. She quick-marched over to the waiting area beside the counter, unlimbering her PA on the way, and punched in the number Rajid had given her. The mystery guy picked up on the first buzz. "Is this the party to whom I am speaking?"

"Whuh … say what?"

"Beg pardon. I'm a big Lily Tomlin fan."

"Uh … yeah. Whatever. Where do I go now?"

"What model is your PA?"

"It's a, ah, custom job."

"Oh. Can you configure it to accept GPS remote input?"

"It'll do that just anyhow."

"Good. Take a taxi to this address." A series of numbers popped up on her screen. "I'll meet you there. What are you wearing?"

"Green tank top with a chopped white long-sleeved jacket, and black stretch pants."

"And your species?"

"Red fox."

"Got it. You should be able to make it to that corner in under half an hour. I'll be waiting." And the line went dead.

##

_** 5:45pm **_

Passing the cabbie a fifty as she stepped out, Wendy surveyed the neighborhood. Semi-residential with a scattering of small businesses, it wouldn't have looked out of place anywhere in the contiguous forty-eight. It was marvelously less crowded than the airport; maintaining her mind shield was a snap here. In the airplane and after landing, it had been quite a chore to keep the emotional pressure at bay, an exercise that left her feeling tense and drained. She gave the place a slow scan as the taxi drove off, and then moved over to stand under the street sign.

"You must be Wendy."

Whirling, she stifled a scream. A tall, muscular wolverine stood where no one had been scant seconds earlier. "Oh! Damnation! Do you always do that?" Her head whipped around, quickly searching for his previous hiding place. "Where were you?" When he didn't say anything, she found his eyes and started to ask her question again – but something she saw there stopped her.

He was staring at her with an almost frightening intensity. He took a step in her direction and sniffed. His eyes widened, and he muttered, "Not possible."

Quickly putting three and six together, she inquired, "Did you know Phoebe Reynard?"

That seemed to jerk him back to the present. "_Did_ I know her? Aren't you … I mean, you look …" He grinned lopsidedly and said, "You're not her?"

"Nope."

"So I guess you've been mistaken for her before."

"I have. But we aren't related, even distantly. That's already been established."

"Heh. You must have given Rajid quite a start when he first saw you."

"Yes, I did. He mentioned that you'd done some favors for the ISB in the past. Is that where you met her?"

"Favors?" Instantly his features hardened. "Is that what he said? Favors?"

_Well that was obviously the wrong thing to say._ "Mmmnnyeah. I believe that was his word."

"Favors. That's rich."

"So you didn't? What did he mean, then?"

He paused as a pedestrian strolled past them. "You know, this really isn't the best venue for a conversation of this nature." Holding out one paw to indicate their direction, he said, "If you would, please head over to that coffee shop in the middle of the block. I've reserved a booth."

"Oh. Uh, sure. Okay." _Reserved a booth? In a __**coffee shop**__?_

It soon transpired that the coffee shop in question was rather more upscale than Wendy was used to. It did indeed have booths, spacious ones, and even private rooms for parties of eight or more. Five minutes later they were seated and served, and going over the situation. She outlined the troubles that had dogged her, starting with the attack at the Inn, and giving him the bare-bones highlights from the next few months. "So when my condition didn't seem to be getting any better, Karl made up his mind to contact the ISB."

Matt had listened impassively up to that point, but he asked, "Why did he think they'd be able to help? Or even want to? If, as you said before, they had a falling out, I'd think securing their aid would be highly improbable under even the most ideal circumstances. I know those people, and they don't _**give**_ away _**anything**_."

"He was going to swap them some information. Well, he _did_ swap it. But that's when the TFN attacked."

"Same bunch that went after you at the Inn, and in Canada."

"Yes. And in Chicago. But Karl thought they were mainly after him. They'd followed him out there."

"How'd he know that?"

"We found out later, while talking with the ISB furs to set up the meeting. They'd had him under surveillance at that time. One of 'em was following the bad guys."

"Really? Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why'd they have him under surveillance?"

"Oh. He was building a … an experimental powersled. It was a real science-fictiony sort of contraption, and it had lots of exotic stuff in it. Something in one of his shipments raised a flag with Homeland Security, and the ISB looked into it. It was while they were following that box around to see who had ordered it that they found out he was still alive." At his incredulous look, she continued, "See, he was listed for a long time as 'Missing – Presumed Dead' because he'd dropped off their radar."

"Must be a master at hiding if the ISB lost him."

"He's pretty good. He hid us without much trouble … at least he did once I stopped being such a jerk about it."

A chuckle slipped past his teeth. "I've gotta meet this guy."

"I _sincerely_ hope you do."

"Okay, well, I think I've heard enough to make up my mind about taking the case. What say we go to my place to work out the details?"

"Great! You really think you can pull it off?"

"Shouldn't be a problem. Of course I'll need lots more information on his whereabouts." His muzzle twisted in distaste. "Likely I'll have to talk with Rajid for that. I don't see a way around it."

"He's really not that bad. I didn't think so, anyway."

"That's because he didn't see you as a threat."

Given that disquieting answer, Wendy had nothing more to say. The wolverine paid the bill and they left, walking north. She asked, "Where's your car?"

"Wasn't necessary."

"… Oh."

"Don't worry. We don't have far to go."

At the end of the block was a small, brick building that looked like it had housed an office supply company once upon a time. The windows were very dirty, and it was dark enough inside to prevent passersby from seeing anything. Her guide ducked into the alley beside it and motioned for her to follow … and her internal alarms started going off. _Is this the part where I get knocked on the head and disappear? Rajid __**did**__ say this guy was dangerous._ She partially dropped her shield, trying to pick up what was trotting around in his mind, but evidently he kept a very tight lid on his feelings. That put her even more on edge, and she decided she'd have to take a paw in her defense. In one of Karl's weapons caches she had discovered a small knife of whisker-reinforced ceramic that was inherently invisible to electronic detection. She took it with her on the plane, and now slid the handle surreptitiously out of her sleeve and into her palm. Just in case.

The wolverine stopped at a door in the side of the building, turned the knob, and pushed it open. He held out a paw for her and said, "Through here."

Steeling herself for whatever sudden moves he might make, she took his right paw with her left and allowed him to help her through the door. As her empathic sense ramped up she adopted a keen awareness of her surroundings, just as Karl had taught her, and was looking and listening for any sign of foul play. Whatever this guy had in mind, she meant to be prepared to counter it. She already knew she must be considerably faster than he was, and several methods of pressing that advantage tripped through her mind. Really, she was ready for anything he might have done … except for what he did.

When her foot crossed the threshold there was an instant of incredible cold, a longer instant of extreme disorientation, and she stumbled into a bright and tastefully appointed living room. The wolverine was right there at her side, and kept her from falling over. "You okay? Not gonna get sick are you?"

"What … what the _hell_ was _that?_"

"That is how I plan to rescue your husband."

A rich feminine voice called out from an adjacent room, "Matt, is that you?"

"Yeah, I'm back. We're back, I should say."

Wendy was still getting her bearings when a lithe, petite mongoose walked in. The two femmes stopped and stared at each other. Wendy thought she'd never before seen a more exotically, ethereally beautiful woman, regardless of species. Her huge, almond-shaped eyes were the color of correctly-brewed espresso, her fur a rich mahogany subtly patterned in dark beige. Her headfur cascaded down her back in waves and folds and rivers of luxurious blue-black. And while her hips and bust might have been more generous than Wendy's, the proportions worked as if fashioned by a master portraitist.

The other femme recovered first, striding over, paw out. "Hello. I'm Diedra. And you must be Wendy." She carried herself with a careless grace that bespoke a deep familiarity with her own body. Wendy dumbly held out her own paw and Diedra took it in both of hers. "Welcome. Matt told me a little about your situation. I know you must be completely frantic."

"Uh … yeah. For several weeks now. If …" she turned to the wolverine. "Matt, is it?"

He nodded. "Matt Sinclair. At your service."

Her muzzle dropped open a little. "Matt _Sinclair?_ The painter?"

He laughed at her expression. "Delighted to make your acquaintance. It always gives my ego a boost when someone recognizes me by name."

"I've seen some of your work! There was a traveling exhibition a few years ago that went through Pittsburgh." She stepped toward him and clasped her paws together. "Please, would tell me how you made those birds fly?"

"Birds … let me think … oh! You mean _Released_? Flock of larks over an old castle?"

"Yes! I stood there and stared at that thing for a solid hour. And I _know_ they never moved! They _couldn't_ have! But they did. And I … I know this sounds silly … I flew with them."

"Thank you. That's what I was aiming for."

"But how …"

"Trade secret." He rubbed his paws together. "But this isn't getting us any closer to your husband, so why don't we …"

Diedra interrupted, "Have supper. Betty says the capons will be ready in …" she glanced at the clock on the wall above the doorway. "… four minutes, and everything else is already set out."

Wendy evinced surprise. "Supper? Oh, you really don't need to …"

"Pish-tosh. No problem. We love to entertain, and I love to get to know new people. Come right this way." And appropriating Wendy's arm, she steered the vixen into the house. Wendy reflected with more than a little relief that Diedra's emotional leakage was nearly as pleasant as Debbye's, so she allowed herself to be thusly led. Then the memory of her arrival here reasserted itself and she asked, "Where are we anyway? This _can't_ be inside that crummy old building."

"I have some unique ways of getting around," answered Matt. "I might tell you about it later. Supper first. Gotta keep our priorities straight."

#


	8. Delaying The Inevitable Part D

_**Chapter 3 – Delaying the Inevitable – Part D**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Tuesday 20 September 2017 –6:50pm ** _

"More pie?"

"I'll embarrass myself."

"Nonsense. You look like you could use a good meal or three."

"Well, honestly, I _was_ hungry." And that was the naked truth. Even as antsy and excited as she was about the possibility of getting Karl back, her system demanded food, and the aroma of the perfectly roasted birds had captivated her.

Matt gave her a wry grin. "So I gathered."

Wendy's muzzle fur fluffed in discomfiture. "Sorry. But it was really good! Your cook is amazing."

"Thanks!" said Diedra. "I could keep myself from starving, if I had to, but this is so much better."

"Well then," said Matt, pushing away from the table, "if we are quite done stuffing ourselves, why don't we go over some of the details so we can get your fellow back home where he belongs?"

Wendy nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, please! The sooner, the quicker."

"Let's go to the study. I want to get all the particulars into my files." And two minutes later they were seated around Matt's computer. "So. You said Libya. Do you know _exactly_ where he is, or just approximately where he is?"

"I know what city he's in. It's Hamadi Gafah's capitol, because Gafah had him taken there."

He pivoted the chair around to face her. "Gafah did that? Personally?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, pretty sure. Hemanth had an agent in there. He was on Gafah's staff, in a very minor position, but he found out a lot about what was going on with Karl."

"He doesn't usually involve himself with such things on an individual level. He has a staff for that. Why the personal interest?"

"They've got a history. Gafah knows that …" She gave Matt a speculative look. "Before I get to that, just how much do you know about what the ISB does?"

"More than I'm comfortable with."

"How long have you been associated with them?"

"Nearly eighteen years. But I wouldn't call it an association. More like being press-ganged."

"Really? Wow. In what capacity?"

"Anti-terrorism, so-called. But for my money they weren't much better than the terrorists."

"Ah-huh. So did you know anything about Omicron Platoon?"

"Again, more than I'm comfortable with. Why?"

"Okay. I just wanted to make sure I wouldn't be giving out info that wasn't mine to give."

"Ah. I can appreciate that. But how does Omicron figure in? They pretty much got wiped out."

"Most of them did, yes. But Karl escaped and …"

"Whoa! Karl was part of _Omicron?_"

"He was."

"But I thought … I mean, I'd been told … Just who is he? I haven't heard a last name yet."

"Karl Luscus. But that's just the name he's been using since 2011. You might have known him as Beorn Gulo."

Diedra gasped and pressed her paws to her muzzle. Matt went very, very still.

Wendy looked back and forth between them, and a small pile of broken bricks materialized in her gut. The pressure on her mind shield rose markedly. "Uh … what's wrong?"

"Beorn Gulo? You are _married_ to Beorn Gulo?"

"… Yyyyes? Is that a problem?"

He didn't answer, instead rising and stalking out of the room. Wendy turned to Diedra and was surprised to see tears welling in her eyes. Squaring her shoulders, she asked, "How does he know my husband, and why is he so upset?"

"Oh … Lord, Wendy! I'm so sorry." And she quickly exited the same way Matt had.

Wendy stared at the open doorway for a few seconds, and then started after them. She let her barrier relax a bit, instantly picking up Matt's signature and practically wincing in response. His anger blazed like a small star … but it did make him easy to follow. She stopped outside the room where her hosts had landed, and listened.

"…thinks I'm gonna risk my neck for that Godless reprobate, she's nuts."

Wendy bit her lip. _Godless reprobate__? Oh, help!_

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry she's dredging up all this … all these bad memories, but she seems nice. And very sincere."

"Then she's a sincere fool. Or a tool."

That got the vixen's back up, and she pushed the door open. "What would make you say that, Mr. Sinclair?"

He rounded on her. "I think you may have worn out your welcome, Mrs. _Gulo_. I'll show you out now."

She drew a breath and gave her brains a shake. When the ripples stopped, and no brilliant plan surfaced, she decided to wing it. "I rather think not. I believe that you owe me at least some sort of explanation for why you feel it necessary to abandon me after what I took to be a good start."

"Given who you are associated with, I rather believe I don't owe you squat."

"Then color me confused. What did Karl ever do to you?"

The wry grin on his face sat in disturbingly stark contrast to the simmering anger in his eyes. "Did to me? Oh, nothing much. Just kidnapped my wife. No biggie."

Diedra offered, in a very small voice, "They never hurt me, Matt. That wasn't what they …"

"They threatened to." He turned to her, took her upper arms gently in his paws. "When I wouldn't play their game, they got to me the only way they could. I can't forgive them for that."

"They just wanted to get me to talk to you, that's all. You know that."

"They took you off the street in the middle of the afternoon. You went against your will. That is the formal definition of kidnapping. And they got a free pass from our illustrious court system. National security. Hah!" His head swiveled back around and locked on Wendy. "And if she thinks I have _any_ intention _**at all**_ of hauling his sorry carcass out of some mess he got himself into, she needs seriously to rethink her position."

"Mr. Sinclair, he isn't like that any more. Honestly."

"Honestly? _Honestly?_ I'll tell you what I think, _honestly_. You've been bamboozled. He's a consummate actor, and has the most profound lack of ruth, next to one of his now-fortunately-deceased teammates, that I've ever encountered. Maybe he's been good to you for the moment, maybe he's …"

"He's in love with me. And I with him."

"You remind him of Phoebe, or he has some use in mind for you; nothing more."

"You're wrong."

"I'm not." His utter confidence was unsettling. "You mentioned you'd been married a few months. How long have you known him? A year, maybe a little more? He can, and will, maintain a façade for far longer than that. If Gafah has him, you can count yourself lucky you were separated before he broke your heart. Or cut it out."

She drew another deep breath. Her temper had had enough, and wanted out, and it took several good whacks with the Not Now Stick to beat it into submission. "Tell me, Mr. Sinclair, when was the last time you saw him?"

"March the sixth, 2005. A couple of minutes past five in the afternoon."

"… Ooookay. Either your memory is as good as his, or something made a real impression."

"It would be the latter. That was when he delivered their list of demands."

Diedra objected, "That was just a show for your benefit, just to convince you to work with them!"

"Heh. Well, I guess it worked. I'm thoroughly cowed, right?"

"So twelve and a half years?" prodded Wendy. "You've not seen nor talked with him in well over a decade?"

"People don't change, at least not as much as _he'd_ have to change to make me consider him worth salvaging. Now, if you'll just come this way …"

"But he has," she insisted. She took a step toward him and held up a paw. "Look, I've been with him constantly for months. He has saved my life a few times, and got snatched while trying to get some information to help me get over a bad physical condition that turned my daily existence into a train wreck. He's a genuinely nice guy now, and you can trust me when I say he repudiates his former life. He broke with the ISB at the end of 2007, and went on a crusade to rid the world of Cartel terrorists. And he did a da- … a really good job of it, too!"

"If it involved killing, I'm quite sure he did an _excellent_ job."

Diedra put her paw on his shoulder. "Killing in the cause of justice is sometimes unavoidable, and you know it."

Wendy found herself very glad that Diedra seemed to be in her corner. "But he's not like that now! You must believe me!"

"I must do nothing of the sort. Let me ask you something. Truthfully, can you say with total confidence that he hasn't killed anyone since you met him?"

"No, I can't."

"I rest my case. Let's go."

She hurried to say, "When the TFN attacked us at my house, he retaliated in self-defense. It was a kill or be killed situation. Would you not do the same?"

Diedra smirked at him. A frown made itself comfortable over his eyes.

"Mr. Sinclair, I understand there may be bad blood between you, but please, for my sake, hear me out."

He glanced between her and his wife a few times and shrugged. "Fine. You've got ten minutes. Convince me."

_Ground and center, Wendy, ground and center._ She swallowed and gave him her most direct, genuine look. "When Omicron was attacked, Phoebe was killed. The story's **way** more involved than that, but that's the bare-bones fact. It just about drove him nuts. And, yes, he's a wolverine, so revenge was his guiding force for about the next three years. He wiped out ninety-five percent of the Cartel's leadership, put most of their organizations out of commission, and drove the rest of them into the woodwork. But then he sort of ran out of steam. He engineered a fade, dropped out of sight, and relocated to rural Vermont. He opened a little repair shop, just to keep busy, and tried to forget about his past, but he had a lot more time for introspection than was really good for him. He toyed with the idea of suicide, but … well, you know about his regenerative abilities?"

Matt nodded once, his muzzle tightly shut.

"He was curious about how long he could keep going, how long his body would last. He's pretty old now, but you wouldn't know it to look at him. He looks and smells and feels about twenty-five or thirty. Basically, he doesn't seem to be aging."

The wolverine held up a paw. "Are you telling me that he … he has become _immortal_ or something?"

"I have no idea. Neither does he. There isn't really a precedent. But he heals from any injury that doesn't kill him outright, poisons don't work on him, heck, he can't even get drunk. But that's not the point. The point is that he didn't think he had anything left to live for, and if he'd had just a little more motivation to end it, I never would have met him."

"But he didn't go through with it."

"Obviously not. What happened was that he met this family of dormice and sort of took them under his wing. The father had been murdered, and he stepped in a little bit, you might say. He let the oldest boy come to work for him at the Fixit Shop, and made him an apprentice."

"Apprentice what? Spy?"

"No. Mechanic/toolmaker/electronics guy. Karl's really good at that sort of thing. He's an inventor."

"Ah-huh. He spin you this tale all at once, or bit by bit?"

"He didn't spin much of it at all, himself. Martin, that boy I mentioned, is a friend of mine. And he was part of the reason why Karl changed."

"… Go on. This should be good."

"Martin invited Karl to go to church with him and …"

Matt's bark of laughter interrupted her. "I'm sure that went over well."

"Not initially, no." Matt's snarky comments grated on Wendy's last nerve, but she kept her composure. The stakes were too high not to. "Karl didn't have any interest in the spiritual. But Martin was polite, and just let him know that he'd be welcome if he ever showed up. After a while, Karl thought that being a part of a local congregation would help to reinforce his place in the community, sort of cement his secret identity."

"I have a question. If you know his name's Beorn now, why don't you call him that?"

"Oh. Well, see, Karl's his middle 'given' name, and he likes it better, and I'm used to thinking of him that way. That's all."

"Ah. Continue."

"So he went, and he heard what he called a 'presentation of the Gospel', and it made an impression on him. He said he'd never heard it before. Then he got to know the preacher there at Martin's church, and they talked a lot. The preacher, Alan Grey, gave Karl a bunch of reading material and Bible commentaries and so forth, and after he read them, he …"

There was Matt's paw again. "Hold it. Hold on right there. Please tell me you aren't going to maintain that Gulo became a Christian. That would strain my already tattered credulity beyond its limit."

"I'm just relaying the facts. That's all. And, yes, he did become a Christian."

Matt snorted and presented his back to the vixen. "Sure he did."

Wendy shrugged. "I can't make you believe me. All I can do is tell you what I know. And I _know_ that Karl is on the God squad now."

He turned toward her. "The pardon me _what?_"

"He's really committed to that stuff."

"That 'stuff', is it? May I infer correctly from your phraseology that you aren't on that same page with him?"

"You may. If God wants to tell me anything, He knows where to find me."

"I see. And yet you are using Christianity – or Gulo's supposed connection to it – to bolster your case that I should rescue him. That makes no sense."

"Maybe love doesn't make sense. I fell in love with him, _despite_ his being a Christian, not _because_ of it. But I'm telling you this to make you understand that he really has changed, and he has what he considers a good, solid _reason_ for that change."

"And I think he's got you fooled."

Wendy paused then, and smiled a little to herself. _Maybe we'll just see about that._ She cleared her throat and said, "Let me tell you some of the rest of the story. See, all the Omicron members, aside from the physical attributes they got from the treatment, had one or more 'perks' that had nothing directly to do with strength and durability."

"Oh, really."

"Yes, really. Karl's perks had to do with sensory input and a perfect memory. He could see and hear and smell and feel much more effectively than any normal fur. But it was different for each member. Phoebe, for example, was a telepath."

Diedra had walked around to a position somewhat midway between the other two, and was resting on the arm of a divan. She stood when Wendy made that statement and looked the other femme in the eye. "Telepathy? For real?"

"Yep. She could set up a link between herself and her other teammates, and act as a sort of fully-encrypted closed-circuit radio. They used that ability on a lot of their missions."

"Okay," said Matt. "So?"

"Well … Last June – eh, thirty-first of May, actually – I was attacked and nearly killed by my ex-husband."

"What?" This from Diedra.

"Yeah. Karl and I were on the run from the TFN, and in the middle of nowhere in northern Alberta. About ten klicks north of lost, was the way I thought about it. Arthur – that's my ex – tracked me down. He knocked me out, carried me up onto a nearby cliff, and staked me out on a rock. He was completely insane, and was intending to sacrifice me to some demon or something."

Diedra had a paw at the back of her neck. "Holy cow!"

"Honey, please?" Matt huffed a frustrated sigh.

"Well how would _you_ feel if that happened to _me?_"

"That's not the issue."

Wendy continued, "He actually had started the ritual, and sliced me open. I mean, he gutted me."

"Gutted? As in, evisceration? That isn't normally something you survive."

"No, it isn't."

"Yet here you stand. Just how eviscerated were you?"

She hiked up her tank top to expose her belly. "If you look closely you can see the scars."

He frowned at her midsection for a moment. Diedra stepped over and took a closer look. "That's … wow. How far up …"

"All the way up onto my ribcage." She let her shirt drop. "That's when Karl got there. He and Arthur fought, Karl killed him, and then he sewed me back up with a piece of fishing line and took me back to his cabin. I very nearly died. I probably should have. But while I was convalescing, Karl gave me several transfusions of his blood."

Matt's eyes went wide. "Was he _nuts?_ That could have killed you by itself!"

"Yes, it could have, but he didn't really have any choice. I'd bled out pretty thoroughly, we were a few days travel over hard terrain from the nearest town, and he took the only option he had at the time."

"Well," said Diedra doubtfully, "you seem fine now."

"Yeah. No harm. But that doesn't mean nothing happened as a result."

Matt didn't say anything for a few seconds as the cogs spun in his head. He gave her a narrow look and asked, "Are you saying you gained something from the transfusions?"

For an answer she let the ceramic knife fall into her palm, held her left arm out, and drove the blade all the way through it, wincing just a little. She left it there, and shook the arm for good measure. No blood flow. Not even droplets.

Diedra's eyes were huge.

Wendy pulled the knife back out and tossed the bloody thing to Matt, who caught it neatly. Diedra stared at her arm, and then stepped in close again and asked, "May I see?" The vixen let her examine the struck area. "Matt, there's no sign of it. Not even a scar. Nothing but a tiny bit of blood."

Matt was examining the blade. "Nice little shiv. But prestidigitation doesn't impress me."

Wendy walked over to him, grabbed the paw holding the knife and said, "Stick it in anywhere you like. I certainly have. I could barely believe it myself, so it's no surprise that you can't."

His eyes held hers for several long breaths. Slowly, the knife lowered until the point was aimed at her left shoulder. She shrugged off the jacket and pulled the tank top aside. Matt noted in passing the slim sheath strapped to the inside of her right forearm. He advanced the weapon until it met resistance, expecting her to flinch or protest, but she stood passively. "Go on. Give it a shove."

Diedra said, "Matt, wait!"

"No, don't wait." Wendy shook her head and glanced over at the mongoose femme. "I want him convinced. The knife's sharp, and it really doesn't hurt that much. It doesn't hurt at all a few seconds after pulling it out."

Matt pushed on the blade, watching as it penetrated fur and skin. Then he pulled it out and looked at the tip, and then back at Wendy's shoulder, then into her eyes. "You really _are_ serious."

"If you thought I wasn't, you haven't been paying attention."

"So now you've got the same sort of healing factor he does?"

"If anything, it's _more_ robust than his."

Matt held out the knife. Wendy took it, pulled a tissue out of a pocket, and wiped it off. It went back into its sheath.

"So why do you still have some scarring from when your ex attacked you? There's no scar on your shoulder where I just poked you."

"He cut me before I got the transfusions. Actually the scar is a little fainter now than it was before. It might go away altogether eventually."

"Huh."

"So will you help me?"

His silence stretched out, hung over the edge, fell into the chasm. Finally he said, "I don't think so."

"Please?"

"No."

"Mr. Sinclair, I …"

"No. I'm sorry, but I have my principles."

"But if you'd just …"

He vanished. Poof! Just like that. A frigid draught slid past her, and she noticed a slight rime of frost on the floor where he'd stood. Turning to stare at Diedra, she said, "He can teleport."

"Yes. Yes, he can."

"Is that a techno thing or is it just something he can do?"

"No tech. Just him."

"Any distance limits?"

"None that we've been able to determine."

"So he could just pop in, snag Karl, and pop out."

"Probably."

"It'd take him, what, ten seconds?"

"Maybe less."

"And he won't do it because of something that happened a dozen years ago."

"He was very deeply hurt and frightened by what happened. I wish he could forgive, but … well, he _is_ a wolverine."

"Yeah. He is." She stood there, breathing slowly for a few moments before saying, "Then I'll just have to go get my husband myself."

"Do you really think you can do it?"

"I don't know. But I have to try." _It's my job, then, isn't it? I've just been delaying the inevitable. That's what the fox meant._

Diedra stepped over and laid a concerned paw on her shoulder. "I'm afraid you'll die if you do."

"Then I'll die. But I can't leave the guy I love. I can't just toss up my paws and say 'Oh, well, nothing I can do' and leave him to be tortured for the rest of his life." Catching Diedra's eye, she asked, "Could you?"

"No!"

"I thought not." She bent and picked up her jacket. "Y'know, Karl taught me a lot about martial arts. If I can get into the country, get into Gafah's city, I might do okay. I'll have to be really sneaky, though."

Diedra said, "Wait here a minute, okay? Don't run off yet." She trotted out the door. Wendy got back on the inside of the jacket and took a seat on the divan, mulling over what her remaining options were. In less than a minute her hostess came back in the room. She tossed Wendy a small object and said, "Here."

It was matte black, about four centimeters long and roughly semicircular in cross-section, maybe a centimeter wide. She hefted it in her paw and looked at Diedra. "Okay, what is it?"

"See that depression near one end?"

"Uh … yeah. Like a sub-flush button?"

"That's right. This is a homing beacon. Matt developed them for me after … well, so that if I needed him to come looking for me. Just push the button and he'll show up." _I hope!_

"Hah. Not if he knows it's me."

"Listen, he's got his share of issues. I won't deny that. But I love him. And I really do understand about your situation." She sat next to Wendy. "Given what you've told me about what Karl's going through right now I don't think I'd be handling it nearly as well as you are. So here's what I propose. If you do go over there, and you do find your husband, and for whatever reason you run into a snag and can't get back out, just turn this thing on and wait. Hide and wait."

"I dunno. He sounded pretty … adamant."

"Give me a chance to soften him up. How long do you think it'll take you to get to Libya?"

"I don't have a clue. I don't even have a ghost of an idea right now. But Karl left me … well-stocked. I can probably come up with something once I go through all that stuff."

"Good. Then you should get going."

"Yes, I should." And she stood. "Thank you, Diedra, for everything. It means more than you know to have someone who 'gets it', especially when that someone has the means to help." She waggled the homing beacon. "I'll keep this safe. Wish me luck."

"Luck and providential aid. I'll keep you close in my prayers."

"… Thanks. Y'know, I don't really know what that means, but … thank you."

Diedra gave her a quick hug and said, "You're welcome. Maybe we can talk about that some day." Pulling back, she took Wendy's paw and said, "Come on. I'll get you a cab."

##


	9. Complications & Preparations Part A

_**Chapter 4 – Complications and Preparations – Part A**_

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.**

_**-Alexander Pope**_

##

_** Thursday 21 September 2017 – Ash Creek Inn – 10:30am (-5GMT) **_

In that last cache, Wendy found several very intriguing items, one of which was a large box marked 'Stella'. She opened it and spread the contents out on the floor, marveling at what lay before her. What Karl had done – and she still had not a clue as to exactly _when_ he'd done it – was to set her up to make her own foolproof, ironclad identification papers. There was a virtual backdrop into which she could insert her image, and a machine that would create the ID card with it, as well as one that produced passports. She had a pretty good idea of what that machine would fetch on the black market, and decided that it ought to go into one of the secret-passage stashes when she was through with it.

Stella d'Arc, late of Toronto, was a contract employee for _Canadian Vista_, a pictorially-rich news magazine with an international distribution. Stella's information (sans her photo ID which had been 'misplaced') was on-file with the Personnel Department there, in case anyone called to follow up on her. Wendy just shook her head in wonder.

Inside the big box there was a small one labeled 'Disguises' that she hadn't opened yet, so she did so now … but the contents served only to puzzle her. There were five different bottles of tiny capsules, marked 'A' through 'E', and a folded sheet of paper. She picked it up and flattened it out. Her eyes shimmered as she recognized Karl's rapid scrawl.

_Wendy –_

_This is to be used in case you need to disappear physically. The pills contain ingredients which will replace your natural fur with a different color. I'd like to be able to take credit for their invention, but this actually is an idea I swiped from the ISB's Espionage department._

_If you want to change your fur color, the bottles will affect you this way:_

_A – Black_

_B – White_

_C – Tawny_

_D – Gray_

_E – Brown_

_You take two pills the morning of Day 1, and one that night. Then you take another pill each night for five more days. The new fur will begin pushing out the old fur on the second day, and the coat will be complete by the end of Day 6. You'll need to take another pill every three days as long as you want to look like that. There are 90 pills in each bottle, so you'll be able to stay disguised in one color for over eight months. Aside from itching like crazy when you first start to use it, there aren't any side effects._

_Unfortunately, they didn't have one that would produce a pattern. These are all monochromatic. So, unless you go with Arctic Fox, you'll look like a hybrid. But you won't look like you, which could save your life._

_I love you, and always will._

_Karl_

The note crumpled in her paw. Wiping angrily at her eyes with her sleeve, she snatched the bottle marked 'A' out of the case, and stomped into the Bath for a glass of water.

##

**Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.**

_**-William Shakespeare**_

##

_** Thursday 21 September 2017 – Libya – 5:00pm (+1GMT) **_

Of course, being king, Hamadi Gafah had a palace. It was huge and rambling and opulent, as befits the fur who _owned_, for all reasonable definitions of the word, several million square kilometers. Also of course, it had a throne room, a huge and gilded magnificence that couldn't help but awe or frighten or crush, per the mood of the supplicant whose ill luck it was to be there.

The throne itself, though, was rather uncomfortable, and Gafah found that he couldn't sit on it for more than about half an hour before his stump of a leg started in with the phantom pain. The only way to keep that deep ache at bay was to keep moving, and that was difficult during state ceremonies. So he'd abolished most of them. He spent so little time in the throne room any more that he had to think a moment before recalling just where it was in the massive complex. No, if he had to be away from his seraglio, he preferred his study. That's where he was now, sitting in a perfectly stuffed wingback chair that had been outfitted with temperature control and a massage feature. He was using neither function, though, merely staring off into the shadows at the other end of the room.

There was a timid knock on the door. He ignored it, and the one that followed it ten heartbeats later. A voice, muffled by the thick oaken panels, said, "Your Majesty? You sent for a cleaner?"

He glanced at the door with brooding eyes, finally saying, "Come."

It pushed open and a short servant entered slowly. He was short because he was bowing as he walked, keeping his eyes resolutely on the floor. "Yes, Your Majesty, I am here to …" He caught sight then of the corpse on the floor in front of Gafah's desk, swallowed hard and continued, "… ah … to clean up a spill. Your Majesty."

"Get that garbage out of here."

"Yes, Your Majesty." He hurried to remove the late unfortunate, then returned with a bucket and a sponge and cleaned the floor to a high polish. After drying the area thoroughly he removed everything and came back to the door. "Is there anything else you require, Your Majesty?"

"Solitude."

"Yes, Your Majesty." And he bowed himself quickly out and quietly closed the door.

Gafah looked again at the note that the messenger had given him, shortly before the old jackal shot him for his trouble. He read it through slowly, carefully, and then he methodically tore it into confetti. Pressing the ball of his thumb against his forehead, he said, "I don't need this. Who arranges things to happen in threes? It seems almost uncanny how often it works that way."

There was another knock on the door. Gafah growled, "What?"

A long, black snout, topped by a pair of shrewd eyes, poked into the room. "Sire? May I come in?"

"Oh, it's you, Kareem." Gafah waved a careless paw. "Enter. By all means. Maybe you can sort this out."

"Whatever my Lord desires."

"Yes, yes," he answered irritably, "we are alone here, Kareem, and may speak plainly. More than your worship, at the moment I need your wisdom."

The other jackal looked pointedly at the 10mm semi-automatic pistol on Gafah's desk, and asked, "On the shooting of messengers? Or is it concerning some other piece of statecraft that you need my advice?"

Gafah slid the weapon off the desk and back into its holster, but otherwise pretended that his advisor had remained mute. "It seems that one of our garrisons on the border between Western Sahara and Algeria has been laid waste."

The other fur's eyes narrowed. "Laid waste? Meaning what?"

"Meaning all my soldiers were killed and the buildings were destroyed. Blown up. Burned. There is nothing left."

Several seconds ticked by while Kareem considered this information. "The thing that disturbs me the most about this news is that _**I**_ did not know of it before _**you**_ did."

"I had a courier who was in the right place at the right time. Otherwise I would have had no word of it yet. The attack was too sudden, the destruction too complete."

"So. The Red Horse is back."

"It would seem so."

"This will complicate things."

Gafah gave him a sardonic look. "Truly? That had not occurred to me."

"I beg your pardon, Sire. It does not take a mind such as mine to understand that you must be there to oversee the hunt."

"Indeed. That much is plain. But the French ambassador? What of him? I cannot simply ignore him for the days or weeks it will take to root out this latest resistance. And this business with the Red Horse must be dealt with now. Not next week. Not day after tomorrow. Now."

"You will have to appoint someone to act as liaison to the ambassador while you are gone."

"That would be you."

"I? Very well, Sire. I shall be your eyes and ears and strong right paw in the negotiations."

"I have no doubt. And who will run the cabinet while I am away?"

"Ah … that is … not so clear. I may not do it. Tradition will demand a blood relative of yours."

"That is what worries me. Who can I trust to do this who will not busy himself in finding a sharp knife and a good place on my back to slip it in? This government does not run itself."

A short stretch of silence ensued before Kareem shook his head. "I can only think of one, Sire."

"I was afraid you would say that."

"Your position will truly be safe with Jibril in charge."

"Yes, my cousin is nothing if not loyal. But he is, frankly, nothing else."

"Not your family's shining light when it comes to intelligence, no. But that is what helps to make him safe. He will guard against those who might plot your downfall, as much because he lacks imagination as for any other reason. He actually believes your propaganda about your relation to the Tenth Imam."

"Yes. He is a useful idiot. But you must do what you can to keep him from making decisions of any importance."

"I shall, Sire."

Gafah slumped in his chair. "Which only leaves the issue of Gamma."

"Gamma?" Kareem's eyes narrowed. His reasons for hating the wolverine were similar to Gafah's, and so he relished the torture at least as much as the older jackal. "Why is that fleck of shit an issue?"

"There is something wrong with him."

"I thought you said he would heal any …"

"Mentally. His mind is … different. His motivations seem … well, nothing like what I remember of him."

"How so?"

"He won't eat the other prisoners. I have tried everything I could think of. I even cut one up and force fed her to him. He vomited immediately, and then went comatose. I have had to feed him intravenously to get any nutrition into him." His stare grew long. He propped his muzzle in his good paw and brooded. "In the past he would have done anything, sacrificed any number of furs to keep his skin intact. Killing was not just second nature with him. It was what he did, what he was, and he reveled in it. He thought of himself as Death's agent. But not now." His prosthetic paw clenched involuntarily, the metal claws scraping against the palm in a high-pitched screech that laid Kareem's ears back and made his eyes smart. "Now he is trying to kill _himself_. But that cannot be allowed. I am _thousands_ of deaths from finished with him."

"Does Jibril know of him?"

"Only what any of my subjects on the street knows: that I have finally captured an old enemy, and he is being interrogated."

Kareem shrugged. "Then just lock Gamma away and assign a couple of doctors to make sure he does not starve while you are gone. He will keep. Jibril need not know anything else about him."

The only sound in the room for several long breaths was Gafah's claws clicking a frustrated staccato on the hardwood of his desk. "Yes, I suppose you are right. It can't be helped. Have him come to see me in the morning." Standing, he straightened his uniform and marched for the door. "I have a counterattack to plan tonight."

##

**Do your duty in all things.  
****You cannot do more.  
****You should never wish to do less.**

_**-Robert E. Lee**_

##

_** Saturday 23 September 2017 – Kunlun Range, China – 8:00am (+8GMT) **_

Morning crept in gently this day, the rising sun warming tired, creaking shoulders and casting long shadows in front of the ancient panda and his guide. Though his arthritic foot ached all the way to his knee, Wu Peng made no complaint. He had endured worse – _much_ worse – in the days of his sojourn, and for less urgent reasons. He didn't yet know the details of his quest … only that it was the last, and one of the more important, in his long life.

The guide stopped, pointing. "There." A small village was just visible, nestled in the valley's lap. "Only three _lis _to go. No more."

"Yes. Thank you." They bowed to one another and Wu Peng traveled on alone.

It took most of an hour for him to walk the final leg, and he was exhausted when he sat down by the village well. Per tradition, he waited for someone to offer him a drink rather than helping himself, and he didn't have to wait long. A young vole femme (the village, as far as he could tell at first examination, seemed to be comprised entirely of voles) stepped up shyly, dipped a gourd into the small spring, and held it out to him. He took it and drank gratefully, noticing an older couple standing several steps behind her. When he returned the gourd to the girl, the couple walked over. "Greetings, aged sir."

"Long life to you and yours."

"Would you come in to break your fast?"

"I would. Thank you."

They walked with him, slowly, out of respect for his obviously advanced years, and were soon seated around the dining mat. The lady of the house prepared tea, a local variant made from an aromatic root, and no more was said until everyone was served.

When Wu Peng had eaten and drunk, and set his cup on the mat in front of him, the father said, "I am T'lao. This is my wife, Kiell."

"I am Wu Peng."

"You are very far from home, I think."

"That I am, young sir. I have come at the Creator's bidding."

The couple looked at each other in slight confusion. They were animist, and unfamiliar with this term. "The … who?"

"The Great Spirit of sky and sea, stone and tree, who has made all and upholds all and flows through all. I have the privilege of serving the Creator."

Their eyes grew very wide. "We have not heard of this spirit! What is his name that we may build him a shrine?"

"The Creator has no name you could speak, and desires no shrine, only that you acknowledge and love the Creator, and love each other."

"No … shrine? … But … but _all_ spirits must have a shrine! How else would we know where to go to offer our gifts?"

"The lesser spirits may desire shrines and gifts. The Creator does not, who has made all that you see, and is everywhere you may go. You need only call, and the Creator is there."

The small family was quite perturbed by this teaching, and pressed Wu Peng for answers. He spoke with them for a quarter-hour, and then said, "I will gladly tell you more later. But I am told now that my task grows urgent. Tell me, where is the family with a sick child?"

"… Sick child?"

"Yes. There is a very sick child somewhere in this village. No others, only one."

"How do you know that?"

Wu Peng only smiled.

"Ah. Well. Yes. My neighbor, in the third house, has a daughter who fell ill … was it nine days ago?"

His wife corrected him. "It was ten. She has a fever. Our shaman has given her herbs and wrapped her in poultices and made sacrifices to the spirits, but she is sicker now than ever. I think … the _village_ thinks she will die. Her father says she must have angered a devil in the hills, and is under a curse." Her eyes met T'lao's. "The shaman agreed, and has placed their house and land under _Pall_."

"A devil. I see."

Twisting the end of her shawl in both paws, she continued, "His wife died last spring. She cut her foot with a hoe while working in the field, and it grew proud flesh. She died in three days. And Mian is his only daughter."

Wu Peng closed his eyes, listening to something they could not hear, and at last nodded once, his eyes sad. "I would go to her."

It was not far. The old panda could feel the weight of the shaman's _Pall_ as soon as he stepped on the threshold stone. With a small frown and a quick, two-pawed gesture, he dispelled it. His companion called out, "B'nah, are you here?"

A thin curtain moved aside and a somewhat larger vole came out of a back room. He looked around the room, fear dominating his face. "T'lao! What have you done?"

Wu Peng said, "Your friend did nothing. The _Pall_ is not needed, so I removed it."

His jaw falling open a little, B'nah gaped at the old panda. "Who are you?"

"My name is Wu Peng. I am here to …"

"But it took the shaman a full day to place the _Pall!_ He said it would keep the rest of the village safe! And you have destroyed it? How?"

"I have. As I said, it is not needed. I am here to see your daughter. Where is she?"

With a mute gesture he indicated the room he had just quitted. Wu Peng moved past him. B'nah gave T'lao a lost and desperate look, but T'lao just patted his friend on the arm and said, "I believe all will be well. Come."

Wu Peng stood at the girl's bedside, staring intently at her narrow face and her dull, black eyes. She was shriveled and slack from battling the relentless fever, and Wu Peng understood that he had arrived none too soon. Examining the girl's aura, he noted the angry, red outline and the shadows running through it that felt like old burn scars. Closing his eyes, he communed briefly with the Creator, and then he went to work.

Watching from the doorway, the sick girl's father hardly dared to allow hope any foothold. Already his heart was resigned to her death, though he felt he would die with her. But now …

Wu Peng slowly reached one arm out and let his paw hover near Mian's nose; his eyes never straying from hers, he began a low, humming chant. This varied in cadence and tone over a couple of minutes. At one point the panda reached into a small sack at his waist and drew forth a pawful of some fine, greenish-brown powder, which he sprinkled over Mian's face; it settled on her fur and slowly seemed to sink in. At last, to B'nah's growing amazement thin, yellow tendrils of some oily, translucent substance started winding up out of her mouth. They rose until just short of Wu Peng's paw, where they wisped into black vapor and vanished. This went on for over a minute until the tendrils grew more and more attenuated and then ceased altogether. Mian took a deep gasp and coughed once, then blinked a few times and said, "I'm thirsty." As she did this, the old panda let his arm fall and staggered over toward a low couch. B'nah caught him halfway there and helped him to sit. His eyes brimming, he asked, "Will she live? Will my daughter live?"

"She will live." He breathed heavily a few times, and said, "Give her a drink. I have taken her fever and given it to the Creator."

"… Creator?"

T'lao came to stand beside his friend and gripped his shoulder reassuringly. "We will talk of this later." Looking at Wu Peng, he asked, "Are you feeling well, revered sir?"

"It was … a difficult healing. I will be better after I rest. And then I need to speak with your shaman."

##

_** 1:30pm (+8GMT) **_

The small group of village leaders sat around the raised mat in the shaman's house. The shaman, elderly but still strong of limb and sure in his magic, had insisted that Wu Peng share the dais with him. B'nah, his face damp with tears of joy, sat to one side, cradling Mian close to his chest; for her part, she simply sucked her thumb and stared around at the assembled voles.

The aged panda took another drink from the bowl at his side and drew a long breath. "And so that is how I came to be here in your village. The Creator has a plan for this girl, a mighty destiny. It was necessary that I be here to heal her."

"But sir," protested one of the younger ones present, "if this Creator you speak of is so interested in saving the life of one insignificant girl, why did he not just do it himself? Or is it herself? You haven't said yet if the Creator is male or femme."

"You may think of 'him' or 'her' as suits you. The Creator does not have a physical form, and therefore has no gender … only love for those created." He leaned forward to emphasize his point. "And this girl is _not,_ as you put it, 'insignificant' – not in any respect."

"Ah. Well, then why did … 'he' not simply heal Mian? Or prevent her from getting sick in the first place?"

"It is for our benefit that all things fall out as they do. We are given opportunity to work on the Creator's behalf, and the free will to follow our conscience – yet another gift to us, a beacon to guide our lives, if we will but listen to it. If we do not heed the call of conscience, we may fall away from the Creator, who will not stop us in our disobedience. We are not puppets, to dance on the Creator's string. But if we obey, if we follow the leading of the spirit that the Creator placed inside each of us, and follow with humility and trust and a steadfast heart, we grow and prosper in our own spirits, and we know joy."

The younger vole was incredulous. "How is _her_ sickness a benefit to _us?_"

Raising his paw, the shaman interrupted, "I can answer that, G'zhu." Pointing at Wu Peng, he said, "The Creator has sent his emissary to us. Never before have we heard such teaching. Just in the last two hours I have learned more of the ways of nature – of 'creation' as we now see – than I had even _suspected_ in all my previous life. And Mian," here he pointed at the waif, who hid her eyes in her father's coat, "is the proof. All the magic I knew was useless. None of the spirits I appealed to could help. The curse was very strong. Yet the Creator, through his servant, healed her in less than a pawful of minutes. Is this not true, B'nah?"

Wordlessly, the grateful father agreed, hugging her more tightly.

"And so," continued the shaman, "we have before us a new path, and a great responsibility. We do not know what the future holds for Mian. Ever has her fate been a mystery to me, though many times I would cast her lot in the stones. They told me nothing. This has worried me often, since you all know I have that gift." Many heads nodded. The shaman's facility with Foresight was a fact. "And now I see that it was hidden because it was too great for me."

"As it is for me as well," responded Wu Peng. "Though I know that she is vitally important, that is _all_ I know. It will be the task of your village to nurture her and bring her up in the knowledge of the Creator so that whatever it is she is destined to do may be well and boldly done."

The shaman raised his staff, and all the leaders bowed their heads. "Aye, and so we will." Turning to the panda, he asked, "How long can you stay with us?"

"Not long, I fear, and that is why I feel such an urgency to tell you what I know." He drew another long breath and repositioned his arthritic leg. "This is the last task the Creator had for me, and for some time now I have been longing to shed the burden this body has become. I have trod this earth far longer than any fur should have to. Death is a gift to such a one as I, who is old and very, very tired."

"So be it, then. With your permission I will not leave your side, and will do what I may to learn from you that which we need to complete this task."

"I can ask no more," said Wu Peng. "But now I must rest. My years lie heavy on me today. I will teach you all I can in the time I have, but right now I _must_ sleep."

"Of course. Please use my mat."

"I thank you." Stiffly he gained his feet and hobbled to the rear of the house. "Do not let me sleep more than two hours. I have much to tell."

##


	10. Complications & Preparations Part B

_**Chapter 4 – Complications and Preparations – Part B**_

**. . .**

**. . .**

**. . .**

##

**To love means loving the unlovable.  
****To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable.  
****Faith means believing the unbelievable.  
****Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.**

_**-G.K. Chesterton**_

##

_** Wednesday 27 September 2017 – Libya – noon (+1GMT) **_

_No light._

The darkness, absolute.

_No hope._

All avenues closed.

_No life._

But they wouldn't let him die. And he had tried _so hard_. After that last attempt, though, when he'd clawed open his jugular, they had snipped the fingertips off his remaining digits. As long as his severely malnourished condition lasted, they wouldn't grow back.

Karl's teeth were all but gone already, courtesy of a complex rack that kept him utterly immobile and a grinning jackal with an air-powered side grinder. That had been one of the less pleasant experiences of his entire life.

Though he had no way to be sure, he figured he'd been in this lightless hole for the last five days. To begin with, someone left a plate of noxious gruel within his reach about every twelve hours, but he never touched it; they had stopped offering it a day or two ago. They also kept a bucket filled with water, and from that he would drink, but no one spoke to him. No glimmer of day ever snuck in. He felt like some kind of ghost, not even half a life, and growing steadily weaker. Nothing thrived here but endless night, endless grief, and endless fear.

The fear was paramount, and it all centered around Wendy. Whenever he was lucid enough he prayed, hard, that she would stay hidden, that she wouldn't try to find him. Prayed that their friends would be able to keep her safe. He had asked Lee Evans to look after her, and if ever there was a fur with the resources to do just that, Lee was the one. But Lee didn't know what Karl knew. So Karl prayed. Too often the prayers were soundless, the cry of the anguished soul without the strength even to speak. Several times he had blacked out, only to revive later with the maddening realization that his captors had fed him intravenously, that they had once again cheated the Reaper.

The feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him.

He didn't know what day it was. His internal clock, a reliable friend upon whom he had depended for close to two decades, didn't seem to be working any more, and knowing what that implied, he feared for his sanity. If he couldn't even keep track of time, what expectation could he have of retaining his faculties? But then, he reasoned, the ability to contemplate that loss implied that the loss hadn't yet occurred. Or, at least he _hoped_ that was the implication.

A shuffle of feet outside the cell door drew his attention. Two of the jailors, he thought, though without his enhanced hearing he couldn't be sure. The door creaked open, revealing, as always, nothing to his sight. He suspected they were using some sort of infrared device to find their way around; since his vision Augment hadn't been available in some time, he was effectively blind. He heard the bucket being dragged over to the door, filled, and pushed back. Even in his current sorry state, even with chains weighing down his every limb, they did not trust themselves to get within arm's reach of him. He almost chuckled at that. The wreck he had become couldn't pose a threat to a kitten, much less a grown fur.

The door closed, the footfalls receded, and silence again spread its blanket across the cell.

##

_** Thursday 28 September 2017 – Ash Creek Inn – 4:30am (-5GMT) **_

Whether due to her 'enhancements' or a discrepancy in labeling, Wendy's fur was taking a bit longer to change than Karl had planned – but he'd been dead-on about the itch. Sleep had become a dim memory, and it took real concentration to keep from clawing her skin open. Lotions and conditioners helped a bit, but she really and truly could _**not**_ wait for the transformation to be finished.

It helped if she could stay busy with something else. If she kept her attention away from the fact that she felt like the target of an army-ant invasion, it was bearable. Thus, she found herself in the large, third-floor room where the old wardrobe was stored. Here, she had set up several dressmaker's dummies (no, she had not a clue as to why her uncle had collected them) and was practicing with her staff. It wasn't as good as fighting a live opponent, but it gave her the satisfaction of being able to hit something _really_ hard.

To keep her mind occupied, she had been devising various scenarios for infiltrating Libya. The best approach so far, the one with the fewest drawbacks that she could see, involved actually pretending to _be_ Stella d'Arc, and just waltzing in via a commercial jet. There were still a few Western countries that traded with Gafah's regime. She came up with close to three dozen excuses of varying plausibility for her presence there, and the ones she liked the best would require her to get familiar with at least some of the Quran, which she'd been doing for the past few days. _Icky_, she thought, _but unavoidable._

Halfway through her latest bout with the squadron of dummies, her PA started playing Carly Simon's "You're So Vain". She dropped the staff and leaped across the room, scooped up the device, flipped it open and said, "Whattaya got?"

"Wendy? Is your PA working correctly? There is no video."

"I've been working out, Raj." She had no intention of letting anyone know about the specifics of her plans, and that included her new fur color. "I look a fright. Didn't want to curdle your coffee."

His voice sober and humorless, Rajid asked, "May I assume, then, that you are still intent on pursuing this insanity?"

"Duh."

"And you understand that you are almost certainly contemplating suicide."

"Yep. Same as all the other times you asked."

He sighed. "Very well, then. We have learned that Gafah is no longer in Libya. He is currently scouting Western Sahara for an insurgent group known as the Red Horse."

"Red Horse? Funny name. Who are they, and why is he interested?"

"They are a splinter sect of Sufis and are Gafah's bitter enemies, very independent and very patriotic – in their own way, almost chauvinistic. They want Gafah and his influence gone from Western Sahara, and have begun a campaign of sabotage and guerilla warfare."

"Okay. Yay for them. But no more word on Karl?"

"No. As far as we can tell, he hasn't been seen, or even publicly mentioned, in over a week."

"But he is … he _is_ still alive, right?"

"That's the best intelligence we have, yes. However, you should know something else."

"… Which is?"

"Gafah left his cousin in charge while he is away. This fellow, Jibril al'Faisal al'Amadida, is a zealot."

"I can't stand zealots."

"And yet you are one."

"All right, I can't stand _stupid_ zealots."

He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like *_snork*_ and followed that up with, "I refuse to honor that statement with the response it so richly deserves."

"Okay, _fine_, he's a zealot. So what?"

"We do not believe that he is fully aware of Karl's … _unique_ value to Gafah. If this cousin had any inkling of who he really is, he would likely kill him out of paw."

The room's walls seemed to draw away suddenly, and her head got very light. "_Kill_ him? But you said Gafah wanted to keep him _alive!"_

"He does. But he is not there at present." He paused, listening to Wendy's rapid breathing. "Are you well?"

"He … can't … kill him!" All her preparations, all her motivation, her very sanity hung from the slender thread of hope that he was alive and that she could rescue him. She steadfastly ignored the enormous obstacles standing in front of that goal, and the idea that it all might be for nothing slammed into her with gale force. "He _can't!_ He … I … he …"

"Miss … um, that is, Wendy, if this is indicative of how you intend to conduct yourself on this utterly ill-advised excursion, it will end before it is well begun."

She stopped stuttering and centered herself. "I'm fine. Really. I'm okay." Seeing the wisdom in his observation, she simply incorporated this new information into her plan. If this cousin was a new obstacle, well, she would have to overcome him as well. "Sorry. The news just startled me, that's all." Two deep breaths later, she asked, "What did you say this guy's name was again?"

"Jibril al'Faisal al'Amadida. He is Gafah's single remaining first cousin, and not very bright, and is quite loyal. That is likely the only reason he still lives. Gafah had two brothers who helped him achieve his current position of power, and they were rewarded with public executions for treason."

"But you think this Faisal character would kill Karl if he knew who he was?"

"Probably." He paused, and when Wendy didn't say any more, he asked, "Are you _sure_ you are well? Your breathing sounds a bit off."

"I appreciate your concern, but I haven't misplaced my pulse recently."

The corner of his mouth quirked a little. "I see. Very well. I just thought you should be aware of the situation on the ground in your target zone."

"Thanks. Any aid is welcome."

"Then I will leave you to your preparations. Good day."

She tossed the PA back onto her sweater where it was wadded up on the seat of the only chair in the room, absently scratching at her forearm before noticing what she was doing and forcing herself to stop. Grimly she plodded back over to the dummies, set up the ones she'd knocked over, got a good grip on her staff, and went back to work.

##

_** Saturday 30 September 2017 – Libya – 2:30pm (+1GMT) **_

Frankly, Karl had preferred the lightless hole.

Several hours previously a dozen guards showed up, shackled him more than thoroughly, and dragged him back up to the torture room. There he had been attached to a metal framework that allowed them easy access to any side, and three of them went to work on him in earnest. In the time since, a vice-like thing was employed to crush his right paw, one finger at a time; they used a soldering iron to burn the skin from a section of his chest; and one of them pulled out the stumps of his ears with a vice grip. When they were driving the second red-hot spike through his knee he finally lost consciousness.

#

_** 6:30pm **_

It was the screaming that dragged him back to a semi-lucid state. He immediately regretted it, and went through a frantic couple of minutes before he succeeded in switching off his pain receptors. It was getting harder to do that, either from the increase in sources of misery or his deteriorating mental condition. Focusing his one good eye, he tried to make sense of the situation.

He still hung from the framework, but it had been turned in a different direction, facing an old-fashioned rack. On the rack was a naked jackal femme who appeared to be a couple of years either side of twenty. The guards – four of them – were shouting at her, but could just barely be heard over her shrieking. The guard nearest her head struck her across the face with something and growled another question. She shook her head violently, insisting she knew nothing. One of the other guards pulled her tail out to the side, picked up a pruning shear, and snipped a few centimeters off its end. She howled in agony and screamed again that she knew nothing.

The biggest guard, who seemed to be in charge, made a motion with one paw, and two of the others released her from the rack. It was obvious that her shoulders were dislocated; quickly and brutally they snapped them back into place, whereupon she fainted. The head guard pulled a tiny vial from a pocket and broke it under her nose, reviving her. Then he jerked his head at the two holding her, and they dragged her over in front of Karl.

Evidently she had not seen him until that moment. When she did, she drew back in horror, pulling away as much as she could and trying to jerk free of the guards. But her captors were much too strong for that. The big guard stepped in close, right in her face, but a little to the side so as not to block her view of the shattered wolverine. "Where is your hideout? Where is al'Ima?"

"I don't know! I don't know! I don't know al'Ima! Why won't you believe me?" She couldn't drag her eyes from Karl. "I don't even know why I was arrested! You have the wrong one! Someone who looks like me, someone who …" The back of the guard's fist ended her sentence for her.

"You see what we did to this fur? We will do that to you."

"I … don't … _know_ anything! I would tell you anything you want, but I _can't_ tell you anything because I don't _know_, I don't _know!_" She broke down into sobs.

The guards looked at each other. The big one shrugged. "Maybe she really does not know. Or maybe she simply will not break. Either way, she is of no use to me. You may have her."

She heard that, and started struggling again. Two of the under-guards held her while the third punched her in the stomach with cruel force. All her breath left, and she sagged between them, not making any sounds at all. The three dragged her from the room, talking excitedly with each other about who would get her first and how it would be done.

The big guard turned and stared at Karl for several long moments, then walked over. He drew a long knife from a sheath at his waist and said, "I know who you are. Most of us do not, and the king wants to keep it that way. But I know. I saw you. You came to my village. I do not know who you were after, nor does it matter. You killed many that night. Four of my friends. Two of my cousins. And my older brother."

He held the knife up in front of Karl's nose, turning it slightly to allow the glint of the fire to run up and down the blade. "I heard what happened to your team. They are dead. You will be dead, too, but not by my paw. The King wants that privilege for himself, and it would be _unwise_ to deny him. However," and here he jammed the knife into the inside joint of Karl's left elbow. The wolverine neither moved nor made a sound. "That does not mean that I cannot give you pain. Pain for pain. You cannot know how the loss of my brother hurt. Our parents were dead already. He was all I had left. And you murdered him. Shot him down like he was nothing." He gave the knife a twist, grinding the edge against the bones, and then jerked it free, watching with grim satisfaction when the wound refused to bleed. "Pain for pain. Knowing that you have nothing to look forward to but pain … this does not bring back my brother, but it does help." And he turned on his heel and walked out.

##

_** Sunday 01 October 2017 – Toronto – 4:30pm (-5GMT) **_

The day was cold enough that Wendy's hat, scarf and full length trench coat didn't bring any comment from the furs at the airport ticket counter. Her new pelt still hadn't completely grown in, but she figured it wouldn't be long now, and she was very anxious to get her plan underway.

The agent, having finished with tapping in her information on his terminal, asked for her PA, which she passed to him. He performed a few more operations and gave it back. "There you are, miss. The flight leaves at 8:16 tonight, and you will arrive in Brussels at 6:30am, local time." He hadn't missed her golden eyes, silky black fur, and the fact that the long coat couldn't hide the curves. Clearing his throat, he asked, hopefully by way of extending their conversation, "Have you ever flown to Europe before?"

She gave him a steady look and replied, "And that would be your business … how?"

_Damn. No dice._ He maintained his composure, only saying, "My apologies."

Offering a curt nod for a reply, she picked up her carry-on bag, and made her way down to the First Class lounge. Her research into the various business practices of _Canadian Vista_ made her feel quite comfortable choosing to travel in style. This trip, which would total thirteen hours over the two legs, fit their policy of upgrading for long hauls. She would have most of a day of lay-over between flights, and planned to spend it asleep if possible. To pull this off she'd need every ounce of strength and every smidgen of wits she could muster.

##


	11. Complications & Preparations Part C

_**Chapter 4 – Complications and Preparations – Part C**_

**. . . **

**. . .**

**. . .**

##

**One may not reach the dawn  
****save by the path of the night.**

_**-Kahlil Gibran**_

##

_** Monday 02 October 2017 – Libya – 10:30pm (+1GMT) **_

_Maybe this will do it. Maybe, if I can just keep them from noticing, maybe they'll get careless and let me die._

Karl lay at length on the floor of his cell, completely exhausted and barely conscious. He had not been fed since the recent torture session, and he could feel that his system had turned some kind of corner, metabolically speaking. His limbs burned with an internal fire that told him muscle mass was being consumed in order to keep him alive. Feverishly, he hoped that this would be irreversible, that with his death, Gafah's need to find Wendy would vanish. It was a slim hope, but he had no alternatives.

He hadn't seen the jackal in question in several days, and a tiny corner of his mind couldn't help wondering what was up. Ever since they tossed him into solitary confinement, his treatment had been different, more like some old and easily forgotten problem and less like a sadistic enemy's plaything. Something wasn't adding up, and it bothered him when he happened to think about it. Not that he had any energy to spare for such thought.

Other things clamored to occupy his mind instead. As he lay there, he prayed, and with every iota of will that remained in him, he asked his God to intervene, to protect the woman he loved, to give her the chance to live, and from there to come to know peace. He lifted his cracked and straining voice, sobbing with the effort, and laid his cares and fears and hopes before the Maker and Sustainer of his faith.

Out in the corridor, one of the guards was listening.

##

_** Tuesday 03 October 2017 – 9:30am (+1GMT) **_

"You are sure of this?"

"Yes, My Lord."

Jibril al'Faisal al'Amadida scanned the document once more, and a righteous light came on behind his eyes. "How could my cousin not know of this?"

"I do not know, My Lord. Perhaps it is only now, in his delirium, that this infidel has let down his guard enough to reveal who he is."

"I will send our King a message, and ask him." Carefully he laid the paper on the desk and smoothed it out. Looking up at the functionary, he said, "But while we await his answer, I think it could not hurt to go ahead and build a scaffold in one of the main squares."

##

_** 10:30am (+1GMT) **_

"Please be careful with that! It's very expensive."

The porter gave 'Stella' a disgusted look and jabbered at her in Arabic while waving his paws around animatedly. In answer she pointed at the bulky, reinforced case he had carelessly tossed onto the cart, pulled several bills of the local currency from her purse, and said, "Gently!" Then she passed him the money, and gave the case a motherly pat.

He got it, and grinned, mimicking her gesture and carefully positioning the case in the center of the cart. When the rest of her luggage was loaded, she led him out of the airport and across the street to what passed for a hotel here. She knew in advance that there would be a member of the staff who could speak English. Getting someone to admit it, though, would require greasing a few palms. Not that the bribery bothered her … she had plenty of cash.

This area around the airport served as a sort of buffer zone where foreigners and their various weird customs were tolerated. But she knew that for her plan to work she would need to don the shapeless black uniform that all females were required to wear in public in Gafah's capitol city. The burka-like outfit would be hot and uncomfortable, even this late in the year, but it wasn't as if she had much choice.

Over the next hour and a half she found the interpreter, checked in to her room, and got directions to the palace. Having given it a great deal of thought, she felt that a direct approach would be best. Also, it was fortunate that Gafah himself was currently elsewhere. A few nonchalant inquiries to the interpreter revealed that the fact of the King's absence was not common knowledge. She figured that would give her a slight advantage. She could infiltrate the palace under the pretense she'd put together, and once there she would find Karl, free him, and the two of them would make their escape.

Of course, she mused, it was that last little detail that might still have a few bugs to work out.

##

_** 2:30pm (+1GMT) **_

Many were the glances, curious looks, and outright stares that came Wendy's way after her arrival at the palace. The guard thought her appeal unusual enough that he couldn't just dismiss it out of paw, so he took her to his captain, who listened to her story with a complete lack of emotion. The vixen couldn't read him, and began to fear that she might be wasting her time, but as soon as she made her actual request he picked up a phone and had her escorted inside. A good half-klick's worth of corridor later she found herself cooling her heels in the anteroom of some minor under-secretary. Progress, yes, but she and her camera had been waiting here for almost an hour now, and she could hardly help being a bit antsy.

The door opened and two armed guards came out in front of a short, plump jackal with a long, ornate robe. They stopped three meters away and leveled their weapons at her. Her mouth, suddenly very dry, opened to ask what the problem was, but the under-secretary cleared his throat and said, "If you may please, please to open case."

"… Case?"

He pointed at her camera and the light dawned. "Oh! Certainly." She quickly complied, demonstrating the functionality of the highly advanced digital unit, taking a photo of the jackal and showing him the result. "Would you like a copy?"

He didn't seem to understand her question, so she went ahead and had the camera create a slick for him. He smirked a little at the result, tucked it into a pocket and gestured that she should follow him, which she did. They all trooped into the office, the guards took up posts beside the door, the jackal took a seat behind his desk, and Wendy, noting the utter lack of additional seating, decided that standing in front of the desk would have to do.

The under-secretary steepled his fingers and gave her a calculating look. "So. You weesh to … help. Weeth phutugraph. Thees ees the so?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir. You guys have taken a bad rap in the world press, and I want to show everyfur that you aren't the monsters they make you out to be."

He took a minute to process that. "So. … So. … You make phutugraph. You put to magazine … Canada Look Long?"

"Canadian Vista, yes. That's my magazine. Well, not _mine_. I don't own it. But I do a lot of contract work for 'em. Sometimes I do a little write-up to go with the photos, so I know they'll take what I get."

"I look to magazine, but see not you name." He indicated the monitor on his desk, turning it so that she could see the screen. "Just phutugraph."

She was ready for that. "Right. We sell 'em the pictures, they print 'em. We sell the rights to the pictures, too. They aren't technically ours once the magazine pays us. Like I said, contract labor." She shrugged. "I'll never be in any danger of winning a Pulitzer, so it doesn't really matter one way or the other."

Again he took several moments to digest her words. Then he asked, "Who ees 'we'? You here are alone." That part wasn't a question.

"All of us who do contract work. It's a pretty common arrangement in Canada."

"And why come een Libya? Canada ees not … friendly."

"Eh. I don't speak for my government and they don't speak for me. They do have an embassy here, though, y'know."

"Who do for you speak?"

"… Ah. For myself. See, a friend of mine gave me a copy of the Quran and I actually took the time to read it – well, some of it – and it just made so much sense. I know how all the media outlets in the West are always going on about 'radical Islam' this and 'radical Islam' that, and I never really thought about it before, but now that I have some knowledge of the religion under my belt, so to speak, I think you've been given a lot of bad press and no time to speak for yourselves. What I want to do is get a lot of photos of daily life here, to show the rest of the world that furs are furs everywhere. Y'know, put a face on the country. All anyfur ever thinks about when the word 'Libya' comes up in conversation is 'military junta'. But you're so much more than that, and so few furs are aware of it." She held up her camera. "I'd like to change that. I know I'm just one shutterbug, but it's got to start somewhere."

"And what een Quran you did read?"

She went over the parts of the Suras that she'd studied, and two related Hadiths, hoping like heck that he wasn't some kind of scholar who would grill her about niceties with which she was unacquainted. She edged her mental shield down just far enough to get some idea of whether he was comfortable with this, and modified her story whenever he seemed to be getting suspicious. Nor did she hope in vain, since at the end he seemed grudgingly satisfied with her answers and explanations.

Cradling his chin in one paw, he rotated his chair slowly back and forth a few degrees while considering this information. Finally he nodded once and said, "Very well. I weell assign guard on you. We set up a … tour? Yes, ees word. Show palace, show city. Show people. What else?"

"I'd like to meet your king, if I could. I know that's asking a lot, and if you can't set that up I'll certainly understand, but it would be so great to get to talk to him."

One of his eyebrows rose fractionally. He thought, _If that truly is how you feel, you really __don't__ know much about him._ Clearing his throat again, he said, "I look at that. If king say so, then yes. But you make phutugraph first."

"Oh, sure, sure. That's fine. I can get started today if you like."

"No. I make set up tour. Then you make phutugraph." He motioned at one of the guards. "Ali now take you een room."

"… Huh?"

"Een room? To room? You go een room and stay. Wait."

"What room?"

"Room here. For guest."

"Oh! You mean for me to stay here at the palace?"

"Ees so. You stay here."

"But I've already got a room at the hotel."

He shook his head, a small smile drifting quickly across his muzzle. "We get you bags. Put een room. You stay here."

"Really? That's so great!" Her joy at this news was not feigned, even as she monitored his shifty mental state. This would simplify her search for her husband. "What an honor! Thank you."

His smile grew. _She really doesn't have a clue how things work here, does she? An honor? I don't think so._ Clearing his throat again, he said, "I pleased you feel that. Go now. We talk many later."

##

_** 7:00pm (+1GMT) **_

Having shucked out of the coarse, black costume, Wendy paced the eleven steps from the door to the room's window as she mapped out her next move. That puffed up little official that had stuck her here had something unpleasant in store. Of that she had no doubt, having clearly picked up on the lust that threaded through his mind while they talked. But she would wait until after dark to make her first canvass of the palace.

Many twists and turns had Ali led her, and she noted that on one occasion they crossed a hall they had previously walked down, so it was obvious she wasn't supposed to know just where in the vast complex she was. That was no bother, nor was the fact that they'd locked her door. She could easily squeeze through the ornate bars on her window, and it was only about ten meters to the small courtyard below. Already she had unwound the thin but ultra-high-strength black cord that made up part of her camera case, and tied it to a slender column near the window. That would make her exit and return much simpler. So now she had only to wait … and the glacially, excruciatingly slow passage of time made that pure torture. He was so _close!_ He _had_ to be! There had to be _something_ she could do!

Well … in point of fact, there was, but she was more than somewhat afraid of the possibilities. She'd gotten so used to holding it back, she didn't really know what might happen if she just let loose. But finally she decided she'd simply have to try. Settling herself on the edge of the bed, she cautiously extended her perception. Immediately a pair of psychic signatures formed up in her mind's eye.

_Two guards outside the door … very bored … one very hungry … how long until he could eat? … the other consumed with lust … images of the black vixen tied down, screaming … she's an infidel … no one would care …_

She frowned, closing off that avenue in disgust. Let him try. In fact, she wished he would. The results would be most satisfying. Shaking her head, she fanned outward, casting her mind about to see who might be around …

And came up with a whole lot of nothing, and the beginning of a headache. There were plenty of furs in her range, but not the one she wanted to find. Oh, well. She couldn't really expect that much luck in one day. She'd find him later, maybe tonight.

The window beckoned and she looked out at the sunset. It faced southwest, so she had a decent view, but it was really a rather boring affair, no clouds and no real colors. The sky had been brassy that day instead of blue, and the hazy heat lent everything a softened outline. It would be at least another hour before the darkness was sufficient to her purposes. Morosely she sat in the window and watched while the last bit of solar rim dipped below the horizon. As it did, a loud gong sounded, startling her, and she noticed a sudden increase in activity below. Furs scurried around, darting into the houses, and she heard a chorus of doors slamming shut. _What the hell?_

In two minutes flat there wasn't a soul in sight or a stray sound to be heard. As she gazed out over the rest of the city, it looked to be unanimous. Then five minutes after the first gong, there was a second, and it dawned on her that this must be some kind of curfew. _Well! That changes things, both for good and ill. I won't run into anybody if I prowl around, but on the other paw, anyone I __do__ meet will know I don't belong there. Crap._

She thought and thought about that while the dusk deepened the shadows in the city. Apparently the curfew, or whatever it was, included dousing the lights, because the few streetlamps never came on, and not a single window sparked yellow. _All the better. I can go about in just my fur, and no one will see a black fox, even if anyone happens to be looking. Which, I think, may be doubtful._

She sat at the window until the light was nearly gone, then went back over to the door and leaned up against it, feeling for the flow of thought on the other side. Only one guard stood there now. The other one … ah, yes; he had gone to supper, and would be relieving this fellow in less than half an hour. And this one, meanwhile, was screwing up his courage to enter Wendy's room and have his way with her. _Hah. That wimp? I'll break him off at the knees._

An evil smile grew on her features. Maybe it wouldn't be necessary. Concentrating now, she began to feed him feelings and images and dire mutterings. Immediately he started shivering, suddenly very much afraid of all the things that could go wrong with his plan.

… _What if she screamed? … What if his captain came along? … What if she fought, and he killed her? … What if she fought and he lost? … What if …_

This was working even better than she'd imagined. The Powers That Be obviously didn't choose their guards based on their awesome mental strength. Ferociously she turned up the heat.

… _His plan was known! The captain was on his way this minute! … He'd be thrown out of the guards! … No, that wasn't it … the captain wasn't coming, because the captain knew … He'd been assigned this post as punishment! No … even worse … as a form of execution!_

Incredulously she watched as his imagination took over, pushing him well past what she'd had in mind. This truly was too easy.

_She wasn't really a vixen … she was a monster! The captain had arranged it all! A shape-shifting beast that was waiting right now for him to let his guard down even the tiniest bit, and it had already picked the lock, and any second it would push open the door and slide out into the hall behind him, its long, glistening tentacles gripping his limbs and dragging him down and forcing him into its …_

It was with a deep sense of accomplishment that Wendy listened to the sound of his rifle clattering to the floor, and his rapidly pumping feet fading in the distance. She trotted over and got her bed ready, slipped in, and pretended to be asleep.

Some ten minutes passed before she heard the sound of someone approaching. She released the hold on her mental shield by just a sliver, perceived that there were three of them – the two guards and another, some kind of officer – and snuggled into her sheet, suppressing a smile as well as she could. A key turned in the lock and the door opened, letting dim light spill in from the corridor. She kept her breathing slow and regular.

The officer cuffed one of the guards on the back of the head. { "**Idiot! ****You ****will ****be ****on ****latrine ****duty ****for ****the ****next ****six ****months ****for ****this!****"** }

Wendy couldn't understand the words, but she caught the inflection in his voice and the utter disgust in his emotions. She flicked an ear, turned over, and squinted at the light, then gasped and sat up, pulling the sheet up to her neck. "Who are you? What do you want?" Carefully, she kept her voice girlishly shrill, and her eyes wide in shock and fear.

"A thousand pardons, Ms. d'Arc. A simple misunderstanding." He closed the door, and she monitored the ghostly outlines of their auras as one of them stayed by the door and the other two trooped off, the officer smacking the cringing guard repeatedly.

It was all she could do not to laugh out loud. _Good. Very good. I'm officially a helpless girl, and now they won't give me a second thought._ Waiting until she detected another guard's arrival, and the re-establishment of routine, she carefully eased out her window and rappelled down the side of the building.

##

_** Wednesday 04 October 2017 – 4:30am (+1GMT) **_

A shadow, only somewhat darker than the night outside, slid into Wendy's room, pulled the black cord up through the window, untied it from the column, and stored it back in the camera case. Dejectedly, the tired vixen flopped out on her bed, then sat up and pulled a couple of protein bars out of another suitcase, wolfed them down, and lay at length, letting her feet hang off the end of the bed.

So many locked doors. So many shuttered windows. The entire city had a siege mentality, it seemed. It was next to impossible to get in off the street. The thought that kept running through her mind as she finally nodded off was, _Maybe during the tour. Maybe I'll figure out where he is during the tour. Maybe …_

##

_** noon (+1GMT) **_

One thing that she could recommend about the hospitality in Gafah's palace was the availability of food. About once an hour since shortly after dawn a servant would show up at her door with another platter of finger-food or soup or hummus or something. It was more than welcome. Her stock of protein bars was running a bit low, and she did need to keep her strength up. She wasn't sure what the kitchen staff would make of all the empty dishes, but she couldn't really take the time to worry about it now. The undersecretary (whose name, she had found, was Muhammad – what a surprise) had sent a note to the effect that her tour would begin at twelve-thirty, after the midday prayer, and she was psyching herself up for it.

Not knowing whether it would be allowed or not, she readied her smaller camera to support her claim of being a photographer. It seemed logical that someone in her position would want every opportunity to practice her art, and she very much wanted to project a logical persona. Also, the case was equipped with half a dozen components that could be connected with each other to provide a steady-rest for the camera … but which, individually, made serviceable throwing blades. Also, the strap had an edging piece that detached quickly and could be used as a garrote. Just in case. A girl couldn't be too careful.

She'd donned the shapeless, black coverall and the muzzle drape, and was adjusting the head-scarf when a knock sounded, followed by the door opening. A jackal femme, dressed in an identical outfit, came in and said, "The tour is ready."

'Stella' got her case and followed the other out. One of the guards locked the door behind them, and then they flanked the two girls.

Over the next two hours, she received a superficial look at the main areas of the palace, then of three carefully selected and obviously scrubbed sections of the city. She was allowed to take only six photos, of specific scenes. The subjects they talked with _clearly_ had been rehearsed as to what they should say, and most exuded a palpable aura of fear. Wendy's heart ached for them, especially for the children, who hid behind their parents if possible, and refused to meet her eyes. The whole experience reminded her of what she'd heard of the way North Korea conducted its interviews for foreign journalists, before the 2012 Revolt.

At no point was she able to pick up any psychic traces that might have been Karl. Maintaining a cheerful veneer under these circumstances took a huge toll on her emotions, and she was nearly exhausted – not to mention starving – by the time she got back to her room.

##

_** 3:15pm (+1GMT) **_

The note was short and cryptic, but the messenger girl who brought it was able to elaborate on its contents. "He heard of your visit and what you wish to do. He wants to reward you."

Wendy looked at the note again. "So I'm supposed to go to this … observation deck? Where is that?"

"I will take you. He wanted you to bring your camera."

"And who is this furson again?"

"The prince. His Majesty's blood relative."

"What are we going to be observing?"

"I was not told, Miss."

The vixen didn't like this at all. Not a bit of it. This guy must be that 'zealot' Raj had mentioned. The one that would kill Karl if he found out about him. Did that mean he had discovered the secret of 'Stella'? "And you don't know why he wants me there?"

"No, Miss."

"… Okay. Let me get my case."

##

_** 3:20pm (+1GMT) **_

Kareem was panting as he ran down the corridor. This was a disaster! How had Jibril learned of Gamma? He had to stop this idiocy before it got completely out of control. If the wolverine died while Gafah was away, Kareem didn't like to think of the consequences.

He pulled up short as he neared the hall leading to the observation platform. Two guards and two femmes were just arriving and about to turn left into it. His keen eyes took in the stance and fur color of the second girl, and the camera she carried in one paw. This must be the Canadian photographer his spies told him about … the one that spooked the guard. He was going to have to do something about her, and soon.

The wily jackal didn't like surprises, and this photographer currently topped his list. Only just this morning, right before lunch, one of his researchers had delivered a dossier on her, and it was too slim by half to suit him. Sure, she was listed as an employee of Canadian Vista, but there were no records of payments or bonuses prior to six months ago. Also, her physical address in Toronto turned out to be a warehouse. Also, she seemed much too young to be as experienced as she claimed to be. None of it added up well enough to suit him, and he thought a little private chat might be just the thing later. But first, he needed to keep Jibril from doing something he'd live just long enough to regret.

Not wanting to seem unduly hurried, he followed the foursome into the hallway at a walk.

#

Wendy had her ceramic knife where she could get to it instantly if it turned out she would have to fight her way free. But once on the observation platform, it soon became clear that the prince's invitation was just that. He really did want to thank her for her efforts in improving Libya's international image. However, his idea of a reward left a great deal to be desired from her point of view: they were here to view an execution.

She tried to make excuses, to beg off on account of a headache, but he wouldn't hear of it. The criminal being executed – by crucifixion, as it happened – was a national enemy, and she would doubtless wish to record it for posterity. This platform was perfectly placed to view the goings-on in the large plaza below, so she could get several good shots of the event. After all, that's what she had come to Libya to do, yes?

She was forced to agree, and took a seat.

Very shortly thereafter, another jackal came out onto the platform and sort of slid up next to the prince. Wendy disliked him on sight. He started speaking to Jibril in low tones, and in Arabic, so she tweaked open her shield just enough to catch the drift of their emotional state … and instantly shut it back down, hard. Repressing a shiver, she stared at the back of the newcomer's head. What a totally unadulterated piece of scum! How could such a horrid furson be allowed access to the royal family? But she checked herself on that one, recalling just what sort of character the king was. After brief consideration she decided it wasn't surprising at all.

The prince had raised his voice a notch during her ruminations, and she cracked the shield open again to see if she could find out why.

{ "**And ****you ****call ****yourself ****an ****adviser! ****How ****could ****this ****possibly ****be ****the ****wrong ****thing ****to ****do?****"** }

{ "I spoke with the king just before he left, and he told me in no uncertain terms that the wolverine was to be kept alive!" }

{ **"****That ****makes ****no ****sense. ****Obviously ****you ****heard ****wrong.****"** }

{ "He was most adamant. I must really insist that you leave off this foolishness and contact the king for confirmation before …" }

{ **"****The ****scion ****of ****the ****Tenth ****Imam ****would ****wish ****nothing ****more ****than ****to ****rid ****the ****earth ****of ****this ****infidel ****filth! ****We ****will ****proceed. ****You ****are ****dismissed.****"** }

Kareem grabbed Jibril by the forearm and opened his mouth to press his case, but the prince's left arm flashed, and the other jackal stumbled backward, staring down dumbly at the short sword protruding from his lower chest. He staggered, fell against the wall, slid down to a sitting position and then toppled sideways.

Jibril turned to Wendy, who sat there open-mouthed, and said, "I must apologize for the interruption. These stupid servants do occasionally need to be taught a lesson in manners." Turning back to the courtyard, he raised his right arm and said, "Bring out the prisoner!"

##


	12. The Apprehension of Reality Part A

**_Chapter Five – The Apprehension of Reality – Part A_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Grief teaches the steadiest minds to waver.**

_**-Sophocles**_

##

_** Wednesday 04 October 2017 – Libya – 3:26pm (+1GMT) **_

The prince raised his right arm and said, "Bring out the prisoner!"

Still not quite believing what she had just witnessed, Wendy looked dumbly at the jackal's profile. But then there was a fanfare from the plaza below that snagged her increasingly ragged attention, and she refocused her gaze.

Basically oval in shape, the plaza covered perhaps three hectares. It resembled a _marktplatz_ in that it was completely ringed with buildings, and had several areas that seemed designed to host stalls or kiosks or something scattered around in a couple of roughly concentric rings. It was also _liberally_ supplied with heavily-armed soldiers, drawn up in ranks along both sides, with maybe as many as a thousand of the city's inhabitants milling and shouting beyond them.

They had erected a platform about three-quarters of the way to the opposite end, and on it stood a huge 'X' of rough timbers. Beyond that was one of three main entrances to the plaza, where a column of guards came marching in. In the middle of the group, four of them dragged … _something_ between them, leaving a furrow in the dust and a cloud of brown haze hanging indifferently in the air as they passed. At their appearance a deafening roar of approval erupted from the crowd.

She didn't recognize the figure. There was, after all, quite a bit of distance between them, but still … was … was that … Karl? It couldn't be! It was much too thin, and even though she couldn't see his face, his fur looked wrong somehow, oddly patterned. A surge of hope nearly burst her chest as she turned to the prince and asked, "Your Highness, who is this prisoner?"

"An infidel and an enemy of the people."

"Yes. I, ah, I see." Unlimbering her camera, which she had just that moment remembered was in her paws, she continued, "I was just curious about his name, so it could be recorded properly along with the photos of his … his execution."

"My cousin had his name noted in the prison records as Gamma, but that is a curious name, more like a designation than …"

The rest of his sentence – in fact, the rest of her field of vision, the rest of existence – faded out as the figure down there in front of the cross became her universe.

It was him! Skinny or not, discolored or not, 'Gamma' couldn't be anyone else.

The rumble of voices from the assembled furs increased as the guards hauled him up onto the dais. Many fists began beating the air, many feet stamping at the ground. She heard none of it.

_I have to get to him! He's right there! All I have to do is jump the ten meters to the ground, sprint a hundred-odd meters to the dais …_

_Yeah? And then what?_

_Well … incapacitate his guards, break him free from the heavy chains weighing him down, and, uh …_

_Yeah? And then what?_

… _um … fight my way through some two hundred soldiers – and four or five times that many in the crowd – and then the rest of the large city – and then commandeer a fast vehicle, and …_

_Yeah? And then what?_

_Then? Ah … then … then … _

… _and then _**die**_, because it's a thousand kilometers in any direction to some place Gafah doesn't control, and the whole army will catch you up._

_**No!**_ That _couldn't _be the answer! Not acceptable.

Narrowly she stared at the prince, stared at his benignly pleasant expression as he watched the crucifixion proceed, stared at the guileless eyes, the faint smile of satisfaction. He was the guy in control. He'd already killed once, drove a sword into some bureaucrat's gut just for disagreeing with him. That proved he wasn't wrapped too tight.

Yes. That's the answer. Bring some emotional weight to bear on this asshole, and get him to turn Karl loose. Clamping her jaw into a firm line, she readied a massive jolt of emotional lightning and dropped her shield …

… and fell to her knees, her paws darting up to clench her head as ten thousand knives of raging hatred buried themselves in her mind.

Every last fur within range was in a fever pitch over the figure being dragged out into the plaza, and she had been _anything_ but prepared for it. Rocking forward involuntarily, her snout bumped into the deck's stone flags and a low moan worked its way out of her throat. The pain was a white-hot band encircling her head, drawing tighter with every breath as she desperately tried to block it out. Sluggishly her shield responded, but even when she had it erected there was leakage. Something, at least for now, was damaged.

Through the haze she heard a metallic ringing sound, repeated several times, then a pause, then the same sound again. What could it mean? Her brain felt as nimble as a bucket of cold glue, and someone kept shooting shards of glass at the bucket.

The nearest guard caught Jibril's attention and pointed at Wendy. The prince raised one eyebrow, and they conversed in low tones for a few seconds. Then he nodded.

"Ah, you see? She is overcome with gratitude, and prostrating herself in honor of the event. Would that all our guests were so devout." Pointing to one of the guards, he said, "You will watch her until she is through with her prayers, and then see that Ms. d'Arc returns to her room." That one saluted smartly and took up a post beside the swooning vixen. Jibril al'Faisal al'Amadida then swirled his long, elegant cape about his shoulders and promenaded back into the palace proper.

It was nearly half an hour before Wendy was sufficiently under control to stand and stumble along with the guard back into the maze of corridors.

##

**Great art picks up where Nature ends.**

_**- Marc Chagall**_

##

_** Wednesday 04 October 2017 – California – 11:00am (-8GMT) **_

The Slade Gallery had overseen Matt's first real introduction into the world of commercial art, a fact he never forgot. At least every other year since then he had allowed them to host his work, and another show was about to begin. It would open officially Friday evening, but tonight there was to be a pre-show viewing, a special event for the privileged few that Matt counted among his friends. He'd taken quite a little bit of time in choosing just the right piece for each guest – in two cases, because he didn't have one on paw that seemed appropriate, he had actually painted them from scratch – and anticipated the unveiling with relish. None of them knew it, but each would leave tonight with a masterpiece, free and gratis. Matt's memory for injury might have been long, but it was just as durable where gratitude was concerned.

The elder Slade would be among the guests, so it was left to his son to manage all the minutiae involved with setting it up. Matt didn't mind. Unlike most furs, he didn't have a problem with Earl Slade. Sure, the guy could be abrasive. Heck, for that matter it was a trademark characteristic of his. But, really, Matt didn't mind. As he'd pointed out to Diedra more than once, you might not exactly _like_ Earl, but there was never any doubt as to what he thought of a situation or an idea or a furson. Whatever filters might have originally stood between his brain and his mouth had long since given up the fight. Diedra was always quick to point out in return that it wasn't so much Earl's personality that turned her off as it was his utter disdain for any sort of sanity where style was involved.

This morning was an excellent argument for her case. Earl breezed in, brandishing a carved ivory cane and dressed in a mostly-blue Hawaiian shirt, lime green stretch pants, a leopard-print caftan, scarlet-red patent-leather spats that matched his belt, and a yellow plaid beret with a floppy feather stuck through the crown. Matt grinned incredulously when he spotted the mink. "Heh. Morning, Earl. You going to the circus?"

"Circus?" he retorted in an extravagantly overdone British accent, "I jolly well have no time to go lollin' about gawkin' at animals an' clowns."

"Oh. Gawking hadn't occurred to me. I thought maybe you were going to audition."

The mink sniffed, "Philistine," and sauntered over.

"Seriously, Earl, what's this supposed to accomplish?" He waved a paw at his friend's attire. "I mean, besides eye strain."

"It's a comment, old bean, a pithy jeremiad aimed at postmodern deconstructionists. I've got 'em in my sights, by Jove."

"You've got _something_, all right; and I'll bet it's hard to pronounce."

Earl parked the hat, cane, and wrap on a chair, kicked his spats into a corner, and flopped down on the divan next to the table where Matt was going over the evening's menu. "Well," he said, dropping the accent like a hot brick, "it was worth a try."

"Honestly, Earl, you should get a valet. Or at least a mirror. Your fur's a mess, and that's tough for a mink to accomplish. What'd you do, fall asleep in a pool of fur gel?"

"Oh. Um …" He plucked at his fur, using a paw in a vain attempt to smooth it down. "See, I was helping Evie with her laundry. We sort of … got silly with the spray starch."

Matt had to chuckle at that. "Ever heard of this wonderful modern invention called a shower?"

"Heard of 'em. Don't trust 'em." He put on a thundercloud expression and raised a righteous fist in the air. "Strikes me as more of that liiiiberal, commie, soft-livin', backslidin' propaganda that's invadin' every …" He grinned at Matt, who was hooting with laughter. "Ain't buyin' it, are ya?"

"Not a … haha! … not a word."

"Oh, well." He slapped the table. "What's on tap? Can I see the paintings yet?"

"Nope."

"Be reasonable, Matt. You're a phenomenal painter, but you don't have an eye for presentation. You said so yourself."

"Got my reasons. You stay _out_ of the viewing room." Earl's was one of the paintings Matt had done last. No one else had seen it yet, and he wanted to keep it that way. "No arguments, okay?"

There was no answer. Matt glanced over at the mink, who was gesturing … but not moving. That was when the wolverine noticed how silent the room had become. There was no noise from the traffic outside, no faint hammering from the road construction up the block.

"Earl?" Matt got to his feet … or at least that was his intention. The chair seemed to have become awfully fond of his rear end. He attempted to teleport, but nothing happened. In the first stages of panic, Matt tried to grab for the table in front of him … but couldn't quite reach it. In fact, everything around him was stretching out and away and up and down, and then his vision blurred and spiraled in to a point and he slid down the funnel and he was stretching out himself and all the colors were running and thinning and leaving and everything was gray, gray …

#

When the scenery finally decided to hold still, Matt found himself in a cool glade. Small, white, bell-like flowers nodded in the shade at the feet of immense gingko trees, their canopies some fifty or sixty meters above his head. Delicate butterflies danced in the understory among cherry blossoms that lent fragrance to the light breeze ruffling the grass around his feet. He noticed also that his business suit had vanished, replaced by a light yellow robe of embroidered silk.

What.

The.

Hell.

Every sense keening with strain, he tried to make sense of the surroundings. He heard distant birdsong; somewhere not too far away water rippled along a brook. He could smell that as well as hear it. Moving a foot, he noted the silky feel of the fine grass against his pads, and where it was crushed the faint, lemony scent wafted up to his nose.

Turning about, he looked down through the halls of the forest. It didn't _quite_ resemble a garden; it wasn't _quite_ as obviously-tended as that. But neither was it wild.

_Well, if I wanted to do someone harm, this isn't precisely how I'd go about it._ He began to get a sneaking suspicion who might be behind this when he noticed a pea-gravel path leading off through the wood. His interest piqued, he followed it, curiosity doing battle with irritation.

Winding around and between the low hills, the path took him through a meadow of wildflowers, then for a bit along that brook he'd heard, then it turned left toward a small monadnock. A series of switchbacks marched up its very steep sides, and Matt loped upward, the gravel barking with a regular crunch at each footfall. It was with an utter lack of shock when he at last arrived at the top, that he came upon a large stone gazebo where a panda sat in meditation on a low platform. Pausing at the gazebo's entrance, one foot up on the bottom step, he said, "Wu Peng, right?"

The panda, who looked a good deal younger than he had at their first meeting, opened his eyes and smiled at the wolverine. "Matthew Gable Sinclair. Welcome."

"To what do I owe the dubious honor?"

"I have something to give you."

"And, what, FedEx went out of business?"

"In this sense, yes. You see, Mr. Sinclair, I have died. You are now the One Guardian."

Matt stepped up into the gazebo and folded himself into the lotus position in front of Wu Peng. "I see. Well, you did say this would happen. Did it hurt?"

"Death? No. I welcomed it more than you can know."

"Huh." He noticed another figure then, a slim panda femme who came in from the other side, bearing a tray that held what appeared to be a scroll tied closed with a black ribbon. She placed it on the mat between them and then knelt at Wu Peng's side. The panda said, "May I present Lian."

Matt inclined his head in respect. "How do you do?"

"Much better now that my long wait is over," she replied, her voice low and musical. She laid a slender paw on Wu Peng's shoulder; he looked up at her and smiled.

"So … this is, what, heaven? Or something like?"

"Oh, no." The panda shook his head. "This is merely a meeting ground; a place where we can go over some things, and you may be officially invested."

"I, ah, I see. Well. If this isn't the real thing, I can't wait to see it."

"Unfortunately you may have to wait a very long time. That will depend on you to a large degree."

Matt nodded. "I get it. How well I perform as Guardian will determine how long I live."

"That is part of it, yes. And to that end, I have something to give you." Wu Peng drew a long package from behind his back and offered it to Matt. "This is for you."

Carefully Matt freed the box from its silk wrapping, laid it on the polished bamboo surface, and opened it. His breath caught for a moment, and then he lifted an intricately detailed katana from its nest. Giving Wu Peng a sidelong look, he said, "I thought you were Chinese."

"Yes. So?"

"This is a katana. It's Japanese."

"No, actually it is not. It looks like a classical katana because that _form_ is perfectly suited to its use. This was a gift. It was made … a very, very long time ago by one who was a true master of the art."

"Long ago? How long? It couldn't have been more than a few hundred years. This sort of steel wasn't … um …" He looked closely at the blade then, and frowned. _Wait. That's not steel._

"I know only that by the time my ancestors first began to settle the area now known as 'China' his people, even his native language, had been dead for millennia. He was not even a dim and distant legend. Please observe the markings on the blade."

There were, indeed, many small engravings along the sword's length. They didn't look like any script Matt had ever seen. "Okay. Huh. Weird looking."

"I spent many years trying to find someone who could read them, or even recognize the writing, but I was not successful."

"So. Old. Very old." He tested the edge, nearly nicking himself, and whistled. "And sharp."

"Yes. It is sharp and it will stay sharp. I do not know what materials went into making this blade, but I do know that you will never dull it."

Matt chuckled. "Oh, I don't know. I've run afoul of some pretty impressive armor a time or two."

"It will not matter what you strike, the edge will never chip or turn. I have split boulders with that blade."

Placing the magnificent thing back in its case, Matt held Wu Peng's gaze and said, "Are you trying to tell me this is a … a _magic_ sword? Come on!"

"I would not know. Magic is not my field."

"But you heal with magic!"

"No, I _healed_ by manipulating auras and energy fields with my mind, and through a deep and profound knowledge of the properties of herbs. There is no magic in that." He tapped the case with a finger. "Whether this is magic or not, it is, for all practical purposes, indestructible. That may simply be a property of the metal or it may be the will of the Creator."

"Hmm." Matt paused in thought. "You said it was a gift?"

"Yes. It made its way to me not too many years after I took on the mantle. It had been the wish of the previous Guardian that her successor have it."

"Oh! So … this is, like, the Guardian's official sword?"

"I do not know. The one who delivered it to me did not know how she had acquired it. But it seemed fitting; and it has served me very well. If you wish to consider it 'The Guardian's Sword' I certainly have no objection. It is a sword, and it belongs to you. That defines it as well as anything."

"I thank you. This is a true honor."

"I hope you will feel the same way in two hundred years."

"So do I."

Lian squeezed Wu Peng's shoulder, and he sighed. "And now you must return. And I must enter into the presence of the Creator."

Nodding at the scroll on the tray, Matt said, "What's that?"

The panda only smiled and said, "You will find out."

Matt got that 'long' feeling again. The colors faded out and gravity took a sudden leap beneath him as this local version of reality spiraled quickly into him and winked out.

#

"… Earth to Matt."

His head jerked up. "Huh?"

"Those late nights are a killer, eh? Snaps and gaps much?"

"Uh …" Matt shifted his legs, noting a weight across his lap. Gingerly he felt under the table, chilling when his paw closed around a lacquered scabbard. He left it there and caught Earl's gaze again. "Did I nod off?"

"Or something. Zoned out for a few seconds. You need a power nap, man."

"A few seconds …" He took a deep breath. "Maybe you're right, Earl. Maybe I'll go sack out in one of the storerooms for a bit."

"Sounds good to me." The mink slapped his knees and rose, striding to the door that led to the reception area. "Look me up when you've had twenty winks or so. We've still got a few things to finish up before tonight, and I want some lunch before it gets too much later." He pointed a finger at Matt, said, "Ciao!" and let the door click shut behind him.

And then there was only a chill breeze along the floor and a light rime of frost on the chair where Matt had sat.

##


	13. The Apprehension of Reality Part B

**_Chapter Five – The Apprehension of Reality – Part B_**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Wednesday 04 October 2017 – Libya – 9:20pm(+1GMT) **_

The headache finally packed up and left around five. Servants had been by with food three times since then, and no scrap of it remained on the platters. Wendy lay on her stomach across the bed, feet hanging off one side, her chin off the other, staring out the window at the pale starlight.

It had to be tonight. A few polite inquiries to the servants netted her enough information to understand that Karl still lived, but that he would hang there on that torture device until he died of thirst or shock. That was Jibril's decree. She had to get him down and away before he was too weak to travel. The thought kept surfacing – and she kept shooting it down – that he might _already_ be too weak to travel. At least they weren't bothering with a guard at her door now, only leaving it locked from the outside. She was grateful for that boon.

A restrained knock echoed through the room. She glanced at the portal and said, "Enter."

Another servant, with more food. Wendy eased up off the bed and padded over behind her. Yes, they were about the same height. This plan was nothing she was really proud of, but it would have to do under the circumstances. She snaked an arm around the girl's neck, applied pressure to the carotid artery, and waited the twenty seconds or so until she stopped kicking and went limp. Then she carried her over to the bed and began stripping her of the palace livery she wore. Fortunately it included a full (and very opaque) muzzle drape, which should serve to get her outside. She was fairly confident at this point that she could navigate the palace, once she'd freed Karl.

When the servant was trussed up nicely and Wendy was as prepared as she could be (and that included a few 'special' items that had stayed hidden in the camera equipment until now) she walked demurely into the hall, closed and locked the door behind her, and padded off into the darkness, carrying an empty tray.

##

**ADVENTURE, _n_: What abject misery becomes after  
****one has dried out, rested, and had a few beers.**

##

_** Thursday 05 October 2017 – 1:30am (+1GMT) **_

Most of the courtyard lay under a cloak of near-absolute blackness, thanks to Gafah's curfew rules. Under pain of death, no one traveled at night in this city, and showing a light in any home after the eight o'clock bell would usually result in a fine, if not a beating. That was all to the good as far as Wendy was concerned, as it meant she wouldn't overload when she let her empathic field expand to near its limit. She glided effortlessly along a low wall at the southern end of the plaza, a night-vision monocle fixed over her right eye. She didn't need it, though, to pinpoint the locations of the two guards. Any number of sleeping signatures surrounded the plaza, but they were easy enough to ignore. The pair of jackals burned as phosphorescent silhouettes in her mind.

She'd have to make this very short and to the point. Already having decided to pick the guards off from a distance, she needed only to find the right spot from which to execute her attack. The empty kiosk behind and to the left of Karl's cross, less than ten meters east of the platform, suggested itself strongly. Black as the shadows that guarded her, she maneuvered around the various porches and paths, monitoring the guards' mental output, gauging their awareness of their surroundings. She made no more noise than one of the small feathers drifting along the street as she took her position.

One guard sat easily at the foot of the dais, on its north side. The other made a slow circuit of the courtyard, shining a small flashlight around in a desultory manner. Each time he got back to his fellow sentinel, he would pause for a few minutes of conversation. Wendy stilled herself and listened, opening her mind to the flow.

They were bored. They were sleepy. The one sitting had a toothache. The one walking was hungry. Whenever they gave it any thought – which was pretty frequently – they would throw rocks or bits of glass at the wolverine, trying to get him to flinch. He never did.

_Well. Your tooth and your gut won't be troubling you much longer, you little dirtbags._

She had their timing down now. When the walker got to the far side of the court, Wendy sent one of her throwing knives through the lounger's neck, severing his spinal cord. He twitched spasmodically once and then slumped into a shapeless mound. Wendy dashed out, covered the distance, repositioned the guard, retrieved her knife, and returned to her hidey-hole in just under four seconds. It was vital to her plan that no alarm be raised. She was good, but she wasn't _that_ good.

The walker made his methodical way back to the site of the crucifixion, and spoke to his companion, receiving, of course, no response. He reached down to shake the other fur, and Wendy's knife thudded to its hilt in his temple. He collapsed bonelessly.

She sped over to the corpses and yanked her weapon out of the dead jackal, then turned to Karl. She had carefully avoided looking at him before. It wouldn't do to get distracted too early in this situation. But now the full horror of his condition slammed home to her, and her gut clenched.

He hung, upside down, from the huge 'X', bayonets impaling what was left of his lower extremities. The torturers had flayed the skin from the soles of his feet and then charred the raw flesh. His head was a slimy ruin: one eye, no ears, no scalp. His teeth looked weird where his muzzle hung open, and she realized with a shudder that they had been ground away. One arm was skinned to the elbow, both paws mangled and crushed. They had burned most of the fur and skin off his chest and back. He was skeletally thin. And that was what she could see in the _dark_.

Needless to say, he was unconscious. Even this close, she got only the faintest ghost of empathic presence. _He must have slipped into full hibernation. This is going to be harder than I thought._

She hopped up onto the tall platform and examined him. The bayonets passed through his legs between the tibia and the fibula, and were hammered into the thick wood securely. But there was space enough between his leg and the cross. She pulled out an electron beam device that had doubled as a spotlight and tackled the hardened metal.

Not that she particularly worried about causing him any more damage than he'd already received, but there was no point in harming what didn't need to be harmed, so she burned through the spike as close to the wood as possible. His leg flopped out crazily as it came loose, and his body did that pendulum thing, now hanging straight down from the one leg. She leaned against him, bracing one paw under his shoulder to keep his head from hitting the wood _too_ hard when he fell, which he did, shortly. He lay in a crumpled heap, unmoving.

"Come on, Karl, wake up. We gotta go. Come on!" She batted his face back and forth between her paws, but his head just flopped. She wasn't picking up much mental activity, even with physical contact.

_Damn!_

After pulling him over to the rim of the platform, she stopped to consider for a minute, then dragged the guards' bodies around to the front of the dais, piling one upon the other. She tipped Karl off the edge so that he landed on the makeshift cushion. Wendy knew _they_ wouldn't object. Then she pulled out the GPS transponder and clicked it on, hoping like heck the Libyans weren't scanning that channel.

##

Diedra jerked and almost dropped the book she was pretending to read. The transponder base on the mantel beeped again. She'd set the piezoelectric tone to its highest level, in case she was elsewhere in the house, and from less than three meters it got quite a grip on one's attention.

"Okay." She thought. "It's almost five here, so that would make it … let me see … almost two there. Which is a reasonable indication that things are going according to her plan. Time to get Matt."

She used her wrist-mounted PA to dial his pager.

##

Wendy was starting to get worried. Although his period of starvation and torture had shaved better than fifty kilos off his mass, it still took all her strength to budge him. And they really didn't have all night to go about this. After pulling him for an exhausting five minutes, she hit upon the idea of rolling him. It was still slow, but it worked better than the alternative, and he was already about as dirty as he could get.

Another fifteen minutes of work got them to the basement entrance of an older building. Wendy ditched her original plan, which had involved Karl moving under his own power. She decided they just needed somewhere to hole up until the cavalry arrived. Assuming he ever did.

##

The storage closet she found would have to do. Piled high with any number of dusty boxes full of old records and paperwork, it appeared very overlookable.

She propped Karl up in one corner, hidden from the door behind the stacks.

_Come on, buster. Wake up!_ She flicked him ungently on the tip of his snout.

_Yeah, right, Wendy. He's been through two months of hell and you're gonna get his attention by tapping him on the nose._

She took his face in both paws and leaned her cheek against his ruined forehead.

_Karl!_

She reached out, felt along the strands of her empathic web, and brought the ends together around his spark.

_**Karl! Wake up!**_

He made no answer of any kind.

Not really knowing exactly what she did (or how) she tried narrowing her concentration, focusing on him to the exclusion of everything else. In her mind's eye, the strands of web twisted together into a rope, and wound tightly around him. She 'pulled' as hard as she could, surprised at how physically taxing it was.

_**KARL! DAMMIT! TALK TO ME!**_

Contact! Soft, hesitant . . . the lightest moth-wing of a touch, barely noticeable.

_Karl, listen to me. You have to come out of it. I've got food for you here._

She sensed the urging of that basic, primal need, and followed the path.

_That's right. Food! It's right here. Are you hungry? Would you like some?_

She heard a soft growl and his tongue lolled out. She noted with a shudder that it had a hole burnt through the center. His head flopped blindly from one side to the other. His left arm twitched as if trying to reach for something.

Wendy hadn't been idle in the time since her escape from her room. The palace kitchen and servants' quarters had yielded all sorts of useful items. Case in point, she pulled a squeeze bottle of highly concentrated protein drink from her pack, flipped the top open, squirted a little on his tongue, and had to jerk back as he lurched forward, following the source of nourishment. She quickly stuffed the open end in his mouth and squeezed. He gulped deeply twice, then choked, coughing some of it back up. That seemed to deplete what little reserves he had, and he lapsed back into unconsciousness. Her connection with his spark winked out.

"Oh, _**HELL**_, no, you're not getting away!"

She took his head in both paws again to reestablish her link. It firmed up more quickly this time. He seemed to realize she was there, and fought through the fog to get to her.

_[ [ Come on, Karl! Please, you can do it. ] ]_

His muzzle opened and shut in a quick spasm, and a shudder ran through his frame.

_[ [ Don't talk, Honey, I'm right here. You don't need to talk. ] ]_

His mental landscape firmed up, the trickle of emotion becoming smoother, even taking on a little shape. Relief flooded her mind and she almost lost contact. He really was still in there, ravaged body or no, and she was going to save him.

_[ [_ _Karl, listen to me. You have to drink this. ] ]_ She held the bottle to his lips. He couldn't quite get the muscles to toe the line, and spilled a little down his neck, but after another try he quickly drained the container.

She tossed it and pulled out another, which he downed in fairly good order. Next she gave him a liter of water, then another protein drink. Over the next eighty minutes she got eight more liters of water and nineteen of the half-liter protein drinks into his emaciated frame. She didn't try to communicate beyond directing him to his nourishment, and he hadn't the energy to do anything but drink.

At a quarter of four she opened her next-to-last liter of water and held it to his nose.

_[ [ Karl? Time for another drink. ] ]_

But he didn't open his mouth.

_[ [ Come on, honey, drink up. ] ]_

[ [ _n o_ ] ]

The clarity of that single thought startled her, but didn't prevent her response.

[ [ _Why not?_ ] ]

To her, it felt as if he was trying to gather the strength to reply, but just didn't have what it took. His spark dimmed, her connection grew tenuous. She tried to hold on, but he was no longer putting any effort into it on his end, and the cord snapped.

Wendy had not realized how much concentration it had taken to keep in contact with him. She was exhausted, herself. Sprawling on the floor next to Karl's inert form, she rummaged one of the few remaining protein drinks out of the huge duffel, popped it open, and emptied it in three long swallows.

Much better.

_What the hell was that about?_ she asked herself. _Is he in so much pain he can't maintain consciousness?_ She glanced over his various injuries and nodded to herself. That was probably it. She knew that he had control over his nervous system and could cancel out the pain from a wound. But in this horribly weakened state, his control was likely compromised. So he would have to stay in hibernation most of the time_. My God._ _How long has he been this way?_

So. That probably meant he was down for the count now. His system would take the high-potency stuff she had poured into him and begin its reconstructive work. But it would take time. Lots of time, in her opinion.

She looked at her watch. Three fifty. Dawn in three hours or so, and then all hell would break loose.

She set her alarm for six thirty and got as comfortable as she could manage.

_All right, Diedra. Ball's in your court._

_. . ._

_. . ._

_. . ._

**End of Chapter Five**


	14. Just Read the Directions Part A

_**Chapter Six – Just Read the Directions – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**In a completely rational society, the best of us would be teachers  
****and the rest of us would have to settle for something less,  
****because passing civilization along from one generation to the next  
****ought to be the highest honor and the highest responsibility anyone could have.**

_**-Lee Iacocca**_

##

_** Wednesday 04 October 2017 – California – 11:30am (-8GMT) **_

The Sinclairs enjoyed a degree of financial independence, thanks in large part to Matt's abilities at the easel. Given that, their personal … well, for lack of a better term, their personal _estate_ was evidence of this. While the house itself, though quite tasteful, was neither particularly large nor lavish, the grounds were another matter entirely. Situated in the middle of more than forty hectares of hilly ground, the place was a paragon of advanced xeroscaping that managed to present one of the more attractive faces in the area while being almost completely maintenance-free. This minimized the frequency and size of the grounds crews that were needed to keep it up to Diedra's standards.

Matt liked his privacy and his wife's security. To that end, their home and about half the land was surrounded by a five-meter-high, one-meter-thick wall of girder-reinforced brick that fairly bristled with high-tech surveillance equipment. Additional esoteric detection units dotted the roof. Matt wasn't worried about anyone sneaking up on _him_, but his wife didn't have any special abilities. She was a crack shot and could hold her own at paw-to-paw, but neither of them wanted those skills tested, even a little bit.

Under the center of the house, twenty meters below grade level, Matt had developed a hidey-hole for himself, an enclosed space about sixteen meters in diameter and five high at the wall, with a conical ceiling stretching up another five at the center. After construction, the twenty-millimeter-thick stainless-steel walls had been welded closed, and the access tunnel back-filled. He did that part himself, and made sure afterward that there were no plans on file anywhere that made mention of it. Now it was deep enough so that even the most sensitive metal detectors would miss it, and Matt was the only fur on the planet with access.

There were no artificial lights in this 'basement', as Matt thought of it. He didn't need them. In the absence of actinic light, his vision resolved the shapes around him in sharply defined shades of green and black. Here, he had a workbench, a wardrobe, and several dozen storage devices of one sort or another. Shelves occupied a third of the space, filled to capacity with neatly arranged weapons. He had saps and slings and garrotes; knives of many lengths and styles, and nearly as many swords; pawguns ranging from a match-grade .17 caliber single-shot, through several models of semi-automatics, up to a monster .55 caliber five-shot revolver; a few rifles; and the odd bit of heavy ordnance. Ammunition took up an entire row. The shelves hugged the walls across the floor from each other and left an aisle about eight meters wide that Matt used as one of his training areas. A small group of obstacles and a couple of hanging ropes of different lengths, besides several targets of varying sizes at random intervals, completed the picture.

None of that interested him now, though, as he popped into being in front of the bench. Lifting the object in his paws to eye-level, he gave the heavily-lacquered wood a brief examination before sliding the sword out to check the markings on the blade. _Yep.__Same__gobbledygook._The scabbard went onto a shelf and Matt went out into a practice zone, shedding his shirt and exposing the sculpted, wood-hard musculature of his torso. He hefted the sword, slashed it a few times, tossed it from one paw to the other, and went through several forms, stopping after half a minute to marvel at the weapon. The balance was unparalleled. It felt like an extension of his body, of his will.

After taking a second or two to think about it, he teleported up to his study, a room with a permanently locked door. Four large northern-exposure windows offered Matt a good chance to examine the blade in natural light conditions. Sighting along its length, he noted the perfection of the slight curve on the edge, and the flawless planes of the sides; then he closely examined the blade, trying to determine what it was made of. The surface had a polish that did reasonable service as a mirror, but it wasn't steel. At least he didn't think so. It felt just a touch too light for one thing, and for another the color was all wrong. It wasn't bronze or gold, but it carried a sheen that hinted at something like that. Maybe it was a coating of some sort? _I__'__ll__have__to__get__Roland__or__Morrie__to__do__some__metallurgical__tests__on__this__thing._

But that could wait. He 'ported back to the basement and turned to face a target, saluting it and doing a few more quick slashes in the air. Then the tip flicked out, a triple-tap on the nearest bull's eye, marking the paper exactly where Matt desired. A wide and growing grin dominating his face, he leapt between two more, striking them both as he flew past and then landing in a ready crouch. Taking three hopping steps to the side, he brought the blade down on another target, an outline of an adult male fur, made of plywood screwed onto an aluminum backing sheet. With a high shriek of protesting metal and splintering wood, the razor-keen edge passed through from left shoulder to right hip. The upper section fell away and clattered on the concrete. From there he whipped around, dancing among the various targets, leaving inanimate carnage in his wake.

A couple of minutes passed this way, finally seeing Matt poised at one end of the open space, holding the sword upright in front of him with both paws. Then, shaking his head, he strode back over to the bench. _I__'__ve__got__to__get__that__scabbard__fitted,__and__soon.__This__is__too__incredible__a__weapon__**not**__to__carry._ Not that he, technically, needed to **carry** any of his weapons. They were available with a thought, in his paw with the smallest of gestures. In the act of placing the sword on the hardwood butcher-block surface of the bench, he paused, becalmed.

There in the center of the bench, where he was _quite_ sure it hadn't been a minute earlier, lay the scroll that Lian had placed between him and Wu Peng in that Otherwhere.

He did a quick scan of the room, his .40-caliber Glock appearing in his paw, and then flicked around to several different vantage points. Finally convinced that he was alone, he blipped back over to the bench and studied the new arrival. It was still tied with the black ribbon, an otherwise unremarkable roll of rice paper … unremarkable save for the fact that it was here, where it couldn't possibly be.

Carefully he untied the ribbon and flattened the paper, frowned when he recognized the writing as Chinese calligraphy, and turned a disgusted eye upward. "What, you could send the message somewhere impossible, but you couldn't be bothered to translate it into a tongue I'm familiar with? What kind of a Creator does that?" No answer was forthcoming (not that he really expected one) so with a frustrated grunt he tossed the scroll back onto the bench, grabbed his shirt, and flicked upward some twenty-five meters to the bedroom he shared with Diedra. Left behind him, in the absolute blackness, the scroll whiffed into vapor and disappeared.

A full-length mirror stood at one side of the room, opposite their bed, in which he caught sight of himself, noticing a few smudges on his pants. _Crap.__How__'__d__that__happen?__Now__I__gotta__change.__Well__at__least__Earl__won__'__t__be__expecting__to__see__me__for__a__few__more__minutes.__I__hope._ Suiting actions to thought, he quickly stripped and picked out a conservative slate-gray pinstripe (possibly a subconscious counterpoint to Earl's flamboyant 'style') which he laid out on the bed.

Having also caught a whiff of himself, he decided a brief shower was in order. Six minutes later he was in the fur dryer, enjoying the multiple streams of hot air, when his PA greeted him with a short, lively melody. Grumbling slightly, he stepped out to answer it, understanding that the number of furs who _knew_ that number was small enough that he couldn't really ignore it. Shortly he was speaking with the curator of another gallery where a small exhibition of his work was about to enjoy a month of celebrity. As the conversation stretched out, Matt's patience stretched thin. He had placed his paintings there at the request of a friend, and only later learned, to his disgust, that the curator's reputation as an officious fussbudget was well-deserved. The paintings, Matt was told, were all wrong for the room where they were displayed.

"Fine. Move them. I'm not married to that hall."

"But you _must_ be here, Mr. Sinclair, you really _must_. You need to feel the flow of the presentation as it stands. My dear boy, it would make you weep! Weep!"

_Would__you__care__for__some__cheese__with__that__whine,__you__nit?_ "I'll take your word for it. Put them where you like."

"Oh, no, sir! I simply couldn't! The _artiste_ must be involved. It gives the display the necessary organic spirit that only comes from true collaboration! You must come right away!"

"I'm sorry, but this evening I'm hosting a private viewing at another gallery."

"… A private viewing?"

"Yes. Just a few friends, but it's an important occasion." _The__occasion__of__not__being__anywhere__near__**you**__!_ he carefully didn't say.

"Sir! You wound me!"

"… How's that again?"

"Am I not your friend, your faithful patron? Why was I not invited to this viewing?"

_Because__I__didn__'__t__want__all__the__air__sucked__out__of__the__gallery,__that__'__s__why._ He cleared his throat. "It's a small group that shares certain interests. Well-established. We're kinda set in our ways. You'd be uncomfortable, I'm sure." _And__if__not,__I__'__d__make__sure._

The conversation went on in this vein for ten solid minutes until Matt finally lost it and simply broke the connection. Then, teeth tightly gritted, he turned the ringer off and tossed the PA on the bed beside his suit. Grumbling darkly, he stomped back into the fur dryer and turned it up to its maximum setting.

A short time later he walked out of an anteroom in Earl's gallery, straightened his tie and followed the eccentric mink's voice toward the front lobby.

##

_** 1:30pm **_

"_I'll have to bring Diedra here,"_ Matt thought. _"The things these guys can do with duck! There oughta be a law."_

He and Earl were leaning back from the low table, satisfactorily stuffed with high-quality Chinese cuisine. The mink burped, placing a fisted paw over his muzzle before grinning at Matt. "I knew you'd like this place."

"The word 'like' is such a pale and insipid thing, as I'm sure you realize."

"Yeah. That, too."

A waitress came by and placed a tray on the table. It contained two large and elaborately folded fortune cookies. Matt groaned, "Uhff. No way. Full up."

"Fine by me," answered Earl, as he grabbed up one of the cookies. "I don't mind eating your share. Meal's on my tab anyway." The cookie snapped neatly in half and a tiny strip of paper fluttered to the table. Munching a piece of the cookie, Earl picked up the paper and read, _"You are very determined and will always get what you go after."_

"Yeah," chuckled Matt, "if what you're going after is other furs' entertainment."

"Ha-ha, smart guy. Let's see what your fortune says." He used a finger to flick the cookie Matt's way. The wolverine, in a well-fed, good-natured mood, cracked it open. But instead of a strip of paper, there was a tightly-wound piece of red silk.

"Huh," said Earl. "Never saw that in a fortune cookie before."

Matt held it in his paw for a moment, then unrolled it.

"What's it say?"

"_A wise fur gives heed to the advice of a loving wife."_

"Heh. News flash. If he wants to stay married he does."

Their server came by at that moment with the bill, and Earl took the folder that held the receipt. Matt dropped the silk on the table and reached for his wallet. "I got the tip, okay?"

"Sure, sure." While Matt was counting through his cash, the mink slipped a card into a slot in the folder and pressed his thumb to the scanpad. When it beeped, he put the card back in his pocket. "You ready?"

"Yeah, just let me … um …" Matt moved his plate, then looked under the folder.

"What?"

"Where'd my fortune go?"

"Your … oh, that piece of silk? I dunno." He looked on the floor. Neither of them could find it.

"Huh. That's weird." Giving Earl the eye, Matt asked, "You didn't palm it, did you? I know you're into magic tricks."

"Why would I do that?"

"I guess you wouldn't." _Funny how it just disappeared, though._ He checked his coat, his pants, and then, after standing, his chair and the area around it. "Is it stuck to me somewhere?"

"Nope. Give us a spin." Matt did and Earl shook his head. "Nothin'. Sorry man. Did you want to keep it?"

"… I guess not." He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Let's go."

##

_** 3:45pm **_

Silence held court in the gallery as Matt moved studiously about, checking placement and re-evaluating height and adjusting this and rearranging that. He'd brought a number of large scented candles and placed them in even larger glass holders in strategic spots, some on the floor, some on small tables of varying heights, some suspended from the ceiling. Lighting would be critical for several of the paintings, and for two of them the candles would be the only illumination.

Earl had left half an hour earlier to attend to some errands, which suited Matt. He enjoyed his solitude, especially when it came to this sort of thing; he could indulge his penchant for the dramatic without any constraints of time or others' opinions. It was with mounting anticipation that he looked forward to the evening, and the expressions on the faces of his guests.

As he ambled past the second painting in the hall, he noticed something and came to a dead stop, a chill running gelid fingers up his neck. There on the wall, just below and to the right of the frame, was a small sticky-note. It hadn't been there forty minutes ago, of that he was sure. Instantly his silhouette became ever so slightly blurred as he exercised his control over space-time in his immediate vicinity. Straining his senses, holding his breath, he tried to detect whoever else might be in the building.

Nothing. If anyone was here, he wasn't making the slightest sound.

For the next few minutes Matt became a wraith, flicking through the shadowy building, seeking the interloper … unsuccessfully. Empty-pawed, he ended up back at the painting where he looked more closely at the yellow piece of paper, and noted that it had writing on it. His paw disappeared into a hole in the air for a few seconds, coming up with a small, precision-grade tweezer that he then used to grip the paper and pull it off the wall. He'd been the victim of a poisoning once before, and had no desire to repeat the experience. The paper was ordinary in every respect, though, except for its being where it was. And the tiny words, written in a flowing calligraphy, said, _"A wise fur gives heed to the advice of a loving wife."_

He dropped his arms and grimaced. "Aw, for the love of …" _Earl! Damn it, you were supposed to stay __out__ of this hall!_ The explanation that Occam's Razor immediately suggested was that Earl _**had**_, in fact, palmed the fortune from the restaurant and was having a bit of fun with his client. _I'll rip him a new one for this. _The note, he wadded up and threw into a small trash basket near the entrance.

This incident didn't exactly sour the rest of Matt's afternoon, but he just barely managed to shake off his irritation before the guests began to arrive around five thirty.

##

_** 5:40pm **_

"Blast, blast, damn and blast!"

For the last forty-five minutes Diedra had tried everything she could think of to contact Matt. Either his PA was broken or he had it turned off. The same went for the landline at the gallery: either no one was there to pick it up, or they had it muted so as not to disturb the viewing. She thought that the more likely reason. Either way, it was vastly irritating. She had plans for the evening herself, in that she did volunteer work for the local Literacy Council, and had a regular tutoring appointment on Wednesday nights. Mrs. Cowl would be expecting to meet her in less than an hour! Now, that didn't look as if it would be happening. She hated to disappoint the elderly feline, but Wendy's life was very probably on the line, and that took precedence over reading lessons.

Noting the time, she thought, "That will make it twenty-to-three where she is. So about three hours until dawn. I can get to Matt in half that if I leave now." With that thought in mind, she placed a call to the Literacy Council's building and asked them to get in touch with Mrs. Cowl before she left home. Then she snagged her purse and trotted down to the garage.

##

_Stupid,__stupid__rush__hour__traffic!_ Diedra weaved around another mobile roadblock consisting of a group of four vehicles, all traveling about fifteen klicks under the limit, with every driver yakking away on his PA. She'd estimated her travel time at around an hour and a half, but current conditions were pushing it closer to two, and she was getting worried. By the time she found Matt, it would be entirely too close to dawn for comfort in Libya. She still had to convince him to actually go through with the rescue, and she knew that would take time. Muttering imprecations, she eased her foot down a little farther on the accelerator.

About four or five kilometers farther along, in a relatively light stretch of straight road, she saw blue lights flash behind her and groaned in disgust. _Never__around__when__you__need__them,__but__of__course__if__you__'__re__in__a__real__hurry__ …_ She pulled over onto the shoulder and got her license and registration off the visor.

The officer sat there in his patrol car for several minutes before finally getting out and ambling up to Diedra. She had her window rolled down and the two cards extended when he got there, but he didn't take them. He stared pointedly at Diedra's Porsche before asking, "Ma'am, do you know why I pulled you over?"

She couldn't tell exactly what species he was behind the mirrored sunglasses and Trooper hat, but thought he was some kind of canine. A _lot_ of law enforcement officers were canines. "Yes, officer. I was speeding."

"Do you know how fast you were going?"

"Not really, no. I wasn't paying attention. I'm trying to get to my husband. It's a matter of some urgency and I really think …"

"_**I**_ really think he would prefer it, Ma'am, if you arrived uninjured. You were going almost a hundred and forty klicks. The speed limit is a hundred and ten on this road."

"Yes, sir, I know."

"May I see your license and registration, please?"

She'd been holding them out the window the whole time, and turned her head up to give him an incredulous stare. Gritting her teeth, she said, "Right here."

He took them, shot her a disapproving look, and walked back to his patrol car. Given time to reflect, she knew Matt wouldn't be happy about this. She averaged about one ticket every five years, and each time (after the fine was paid) he was careful to make sure that no record remained in the system with her name attached to it. Even though she had kept her maiden name after their marriage, and stayed out of the limelight where possible, he didn't want to give any edge to someone looking for a lever on him. Just in case.

After several minutes, she began to fidget. What could possibly be taking so long? She looked back at the other vehicle, but the angle of the sun put a glare on his windshield, and she could just barely make out that he was sitting there. She took her PA out and tried to get in touch with Matt again.

Finally, after a quarter-hour had passed she couldn't take it anymore and decided to go talk to him. She opened the door and got out, took two steps in his direction …

Over his loudspeaker, he barked, "Ma'am, please get back in your car!"

Frustrated beyond endurance, she asked, rather more loudly than she intended, "Are we about _done_ here?"

"Get back in your car, Ma'am, or I'll have to place you under arrest."

She threw up her arms and slid back inside, muttering some very un-Diedra-like oaths.

Finally (FINALLY!) he got out and walked – very slowly – up to Diedra's window. He was writing on a clipboard. She asked, "May I have my documents back … please?"

He didn't answer right away, but when he did it was to launch into a lecture about driving too fast for conditions. Diedra's pretty muzzle curled in disgust. She pulled out her PA, held it where he could see, and set it to 'RECORD'. He stopped talking and looked at her. "What do you think you're doing?"

Between tightly pulled lips, she answered, "Recording our conversation."

"You need to turn that off."

"Why?"

"Because you can't … you're not allowed to … it's not legal for you to record an officer."

"Really? Can you give me the statute number for that law?"

"… I'm going to ask you again, Ma'am, to turn that off."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not … There isn't … You just can't do it. Turn it off."

"Well, obviously you think that what you have to say is more important than my time. How about if I just want to record your lecture? You know, for posterity so I don't forget."

"It's illegal for you to record our conversation! That's the same as wiretapping."

"That is one-hundred percent pure crap, and we both know it. I made you fully aware that I was recording you, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with it."

"Ma'am, if you don't turn that thing off, I'm going to have to arrest you."

"For what?"

"For disobeying the lawful order of a police officer."

"In the first place, you didn't give me a lawful order. In the second, you should know that this unit is sending our conversation to a remote server in real time. So even if you confiscate it – which you can't, legally – I'll have a record of what you said."

His sneer was a dangerous thing. "You rich bitches are all alike. You think you can get away with murder because you got money."

"Oh, for Pete's sake! Are you making all this hullaballoo because I drive a nice car? How lame is that?"

Body language telegraphing plainly that he was barely keeping himself under control, he took a long breath and gritted out, "All I'm trying to do is keep the roads safe."

"All _I__'__m_ trying to do is help a _friend_. She is under some very tight time constraints and her life may be in danger. That's why I was speeding. I _admitted_ I was speeding. I will _gladly_ take the ticket and pay the fine. I am _not_ trying to be difficult. But you have kept me here for close to half an hour, and I do _not_ have that kind of time to just _throw__away_." She extended her arm, palm out. "So if you would please give me back my stuff, we can both be on about our business. Or do you really want to take this up with your Captain?"

Stiffly, he dropped the cards into her paw, held the clipboard while she signed it, and then marched back to his cruiser. She stuffed the cards into her purse and got going again. He immediately pulled out and stayed two seconds behind her. When it became obvious that he was going to be a jackass about it, she set the cruise control for one hundred ten klicks exactly and just monitored him in the mirror.

The cruiser followed her for the next fifty-seven kilometers.

##


	15. Just Read the Directions Part B

_**Chapter Six – Just Read the Directions – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Wednesday 04 October 2017 – California – 6:00pm **_

"Matt, this is the most incredible thing I've ever seen!" Sheila Gordo held a tentative paw on the frame as she surveyed the painting. "It's my flower. My … my secret flower. How did you do this?"

"I dunno. It just came to me."

She tore her eyes from the painting long enough to stare at him and pop him on the arm. "There is no way _**that**_ could have just 'come to you', Matt! When did we ever talk about this? When did I tell you about it? I don't remember."

"I don't think you did. I just painted what I thought of when you came to mind. Your generosity, your openness, your sunny disposition." He chuckled. "All the qualities that make you the grand friend you are. Not to sound like I'm being too recherché or anything, but you probably already know that 'ordinary' furs don't qualify as friends. I don't count just anyone as a friend. You have to have something extra, something special … usually several somethings."

"Yeah, you've said that before. I just didn't know you took it … you meant it so … so thoroughly." She raised her paws and let them fall. "Now _that_ sounds lame. I just can't think of the words I want." Turning back to the painting, she gazed at it in rapt admiration. "I don't think there _are_ any words."

Sheila's husband, Casey, came up behind them. "Damn, Sheila, that's your flower!"

"I know, right?"

"How'd he do that?"

In an accusing tone she said, "He won't tell me."

"Matt, Matt!" came a voice from farther down the hall, "come here! I got a question!"

"Excuse me, folks," he said to the Gordos, "but Steve seems to be having an emergency of some sort."

When Matt came up beside Steve, the excitable mouse was practically vibrating. He pointed at the painting and said, "Is that Scanner's Triumph?"

"Scanner's Triumph?"

"Jenny's racehorse. It looks just like her."

"Does it now?"

"Yes, it does! I have to know where that is!"

"What makes you think it's any particular place?"

"It's _got_ to be! It's just _got_ to! I _want_ it! I have to _have_ it! I've got the money set aside to buy the acreage, I've got the builders lined up, and Jenny just had Triumph bred to the stud she was trying to get. This is _perfect!_ It's _beyond_ perfect!"

Matt patted him on the shoulder and said, "Calm down, son, no need to explode. Jenny won't like it if I send you home to her tonight in several pieces." He got the mouse calmed down, got his breathing regulated, and said, "As it happens, that place does really exist."

"I knew it! That's perfect! I knew it!"

"Whoa there, son! First of all, are you willing to move out of state to get it?"

"Yes! Oh, Lord, yes! We want to get the hell _out_ of California anyway!"

"All the way across the country? That piece of ground is in Virginia."

"Virginia? That's perfect!"

"You certainly seem fond of that word this evening."

"But it is! Jenny's mom's family is there. We hardly ever get to see 'em, and if we lived there we could get together all the time. Tyler's never even seen his grandparents. Where is it in Virginia?"

"Just a bit north and east of Wytheville. Where are Jenny's folks?"

"Up around Charlottesville. Her dad teaches at the University. Where is Wytheville?"

"A little west of I-81, about halfway between the state borders."

"Oh, wow! That isn't far at all! Not even an hour!"

Another voice from across the way: "Hey Matt, come here, I gotta ask you something."

And so it went for the next half hour. The guests moved among the paintings, admiring them all, but then gravitating back to a favorite. Matt's heart swelled as he watched each fur settle on the painting he'd meant for him or her. _Haven__'__t__lost__your__touch,__Matt._

He excused himself and headed to the restroom off the lobby. On the way he passed the receptionist's desk, glanced down absently, and stopped short. There on the polished wood, in front of the pen-and-pencil set that no one ever used, was a small yellow sticky-note.

Matt's eyes narrowed as he glanced back toward the hall. Then he leaned over to check what was written on the note, nodding his head grimly when he read the message. He continued on to the restroom, returning less than a minute later, and striding purposefully into the viewing hall. He marched straight up to Earl, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, "A word, please."

Earl was immediately put off by Matt's stormy expression, and apprehensively followed the wolverine out to the lobby. Matt led him over to the desk, pointed at the note, and said, "This wasn't funny the _first_ time, Earl. What's the idea?"

The mink was the very picture of confusion. His eyes tracking between the note and Matt's face a few times, he finally held up both paws and said, "Is there a punch line here somewhere? 'cause I think I musta missed that meeting."

"You planted this thing here. And earlier in the hall."

"The … planted? What? What the hell are you going on about?"

"Come on, Earl, a gag's a gag, but you can drop it now."

"Drop what? I don't have the vaguest idea what you mean!" He reached over and picked up the sticky-note, read it, and got even more confused. "Isn't this that fortune you got at the restaurant?"

"As if you didn't know."

"Matt …" He blinked a few times, shook his head, and dropped the note back onto the desk. "Matt, I think you better start at the start and tell me what has you so worked up."

So Matt did. When he got to the part about the note beside the painting, Earl swore he had nothing to do with it.

"But you had to! There was no one else in the building!"

"I didn't. Matt, if I'd done that, I'd own up to it. It's not a bad prank, as pranks go, but it never occurred to me, I swear!"

"Then how'd it get there?"

"And I'd know that … how?"

"Because it's _your_ gallery!"

"But it's _not_ my _note_!"

"Well I can't come up with another plausible …"

One of the guests came around the corner, saw them, and waved. "Hey, Matt! Cindy had a question about one of the paintings. Can you come look at it?"

Matt made an exasperated noise, said, "We'll discuss this later," and stalked back off to the viewing hall.

_Discuss__what?_Earl thought._This__is__the__craziest__thing__I__'__ve__heard__about__in__a__while._

##

_** 7:28pm **_

A shrill whistle turned heads toward the end of the hall. Matt waved and said, "Okay, folks, if you'll just herd up and sort of mill in this general direction, the caterers have everything laid out for us." Appreciative murmurs followed that announcement as they all hurried to comply. Their host was known for his appreciation for fine food, and he never stinted at one of these occasions. Tonight the carnivores would have their pick of braised duck, rack of lamb, or stuffed sea bass; the vegetarians had a selection of succulent salads overflowing with fresh and dried fruits, pecans, macadamias, pine nuts, mushrooms, and olives. Hearty loaves made of cracked wheat, with a small pot of honeyed butter, awaited each diner. The accompanying wine list was top notch as well.

Struggling to bank their suddenly-overactive salivary glands, the guests took their seats.

##

_** 7:50pm **_

Diedra could have bitten a nail right in two.

Traffic. An idiot cop with an agenda and a grudge. A detour. Road construction. Not to mention her stomach kept reminding her that she'd missed supper. And now … now the gallery was _closed?_ What the hell?

She'd knocked at the front door, then run around to the rear to look for a way in, then tried to see in through a couple of windows. As far as she could tell, there were no lights on and no one home. Stomping back to her car, she felt a desperate need to hit something.

_Slade Gallery. He said it would be the Slade Gallery. He couldn't have meant the one in Atlanta, could he? No, no. That Earl character runs this one, I'm sure. Some cousin operates the other one. And he said one of the paintings was for Earl. God knows why._

Pausing a moment to consider the building's façade, she thought things over. She'd been to this gallery before, once, which was how she knew where it was. The viewing was tonight, she was positive. Matt had been talking about it for weeks. They had a one-hundred percent transparent relationship and he never lied to her, not even about silly little things.

_But__ … __they __have __a __gallery __here, __and __one __in __Atlanta, __and __one __in __Chicago. __Could __they, __maybe __have _two _here? __One __business, __but __operating __in __two __locations?_ That hadn't occurred to her before, but it would explain this situation. She dug out her PA and looked up the address in the business listing.

Ah-ha! There were _three_ physical addresses given for the Slade Gallery; one of them did say 'Deliveries Only' so that probably wasn't the one she wanted. She did a quick map of the route, sighing when it predicted a travel time of thirty-two minutes. Dropping the PA into her purse, she slammed the sleek little car into gear, and left a bit of rubber on the pavement behind her. _Let__'__s __see __if __we __can __turn __thirty-two __into __twenty._

##

_** 8:23pm **_

Some of the guests were already into dessert (a choice of crème brûlée, tiramisu, or a cheese plate) when Diedra came running in and skidded to a stop at the end of the room. Zeroing in on a very surprised Matt, she cocked an eyebrow at him and crooked her finger in a 'you-really-should-come-talk-to-me-right-now' manner. Every eye following him, he excused himself and hurried out to meet her.

The first thing out of her mouth was, "Do you have your PA?"

"Uh … yeah. 'course I do."

"Is it, oh, I don't know, _turned__off_ maybe?"

"Um …" He pulled it out and looked at the display, his muzzle fluffing out. "Ah … yeah, the ringer is. Sorry about that."

"You know, for someone who goes to such great lengths to keep me protected, so-called, you miss some of the most obvious details."

"Oh, gosh, Honey, I'm really sorry! I meant to turn it back on when I got to the gallery, but there was so much to do that I …"

She held up a paw to stop him. "Skip it. I'm fine, and that isn't really important right now."

"Oh. Okay." He frowned. "So … why are you here, then? I thought you had a tutoring thing tonight."

"I did. I had to cancel it to come find you."

"Uh … why?"

"I need you to do something for me."

"Sure! Anything."

"You say that _now_."

"No, really! I mean, if it isn't illegal … or _too_ immoral."

"Good. Do you remember when Wendy contacted us?"

A dark cloud swept his face utterly clear of good humor. "You mean Mrs. Gulo?"

"Yes."

"What of it?"

"She went to rescue him."

His eyebrows and lower jaw went in opposite directions. "She _did?_ What for?"

"Because she loves him, knucklehead! I'd do exactly the same thing in her situation."

"Well … yeah, but … you mean she actually went to Libya? Herself?"

"Yes, herself. Who else?"

"But … how'd you know about it?"

"Because I gave her one of my homing beacons."

His mouth opened and shut a couple of times. He scratched the back of his neck, looked at her out of the corner of one eye, and cleared his throat. "Homing beacon, huh?"

"Yes. She turned it on …" Glancing up at the clock briefly, she continued, "three and a half hours ago. She said she would try to get him out on her own, but if she got into a really tight spot she'd let me know."

"So … wait … you two _planned_ this?"

"I don't know as I'd give it such an honorable title as 'plan', but we did discuss it before she left. If you'll recall, you sort of made yourself scarce."

"Yeah. And you know why, too."

"Matt, let it go. Please? It was a long, long time ago. Most of those involved don't even work at the ISB anymore. Heck, for that matter a lot of them are dead. And if Wendy can be believed at all – and I do believe her – Gulo has changed."

"Yeah, but …"

"For goodness' sake, Matt! She believes in him enough to give up her _life_ trying to save him! What more proof do you need?"

"He could be faking it. He's that good an actor."

"Matt, damn it! He's in trouble. Those guys were durable, but they weren't indestructible, and he's been a prisoner of theirs for weeks and weeks. Don't you think, whether they know anything about him or not, that he's probably been _tortured_ most of that time?"

He tried to keep the _'__Good __enough __for __him!__'_ look off his face, and almost succeeded.

She took his paw in hers and squeezed. "Matt? Please? Just do this for me, if for no other reason. Do it because I can really identify with her point of view. Do it because you know it's the right thing to do and you'll feel a lot better if you follow through."

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Do it all for love, eh?"

She nodded, her face hopeful.

Squeezing her paw back, he swept her in close for a kiss. "Listen, I was just on my way to the restroom, okay? I'll be right back."

"I'll be waiting."

"Did you have supper?"

"That I did not."

"There's plenty in there."

"Then that's where I'll be."

Matt was washing his paws a few minutes later and staring at his reflection. The restroom was a highly-custom job, about what one would expect from an upscale art gallery: the sink/vanity was built up of thin pieces of mica-encrusted stone, and the drain appeared to be a kind of natural cleft in the rock, with a short section of bronze pipe sticking out of the wall above it offering water. To activate that, one would step on a rocky protrusion at floor level. The mirror was also very irregularly shaped, and looked as if it had been chipped off a glacier. Matt usually found the room either charming or soothing or both, but he was getting himself too worked up to really pay attention.

_This is Gulo we're talking about! Remember? Part of the bunch that kidnapped her?_

_And this is also my wife we're talking about, yes? I can't just turn her down._

_Okay, then, go on over there. Look for them. If you find Wendy, bring her back. You don't necessarily have to look for Gulo, do you?_

_That wouldn't be honest, though, would it?_

_So just look for him a little bit. Just enough to say you did._

_Hmmmmm …_

_Come on, you can do that. Save the girl, let the bum rot._

_I don't know …_

_Don't wuss out on me now!_

He finished laving his paws, pulled a couple of paper towels out of the dispenser, and froze, staring at what he held. There were words on the towels, written in flowing calligraphy: "_A __WISE __fur __gives __HEED __to __the __ADVICE __of __a __loving __WIFE!__"_

His paws trembling, he dropped it on the floor, then saw what was written on the other towel: "_So __please __at __least __TRY __to __be __wise!__"_

Jerkily, he wadded them up and stuffed them into the small trash bin by the door, then hurried out to his guests, several of whom noticed him … and noticed how disturbed he seemed to be. He sat beside his wife, who covered his paw with hers and gave him a concerned look. "Are you okay? You look like someone just told you the Dodgers won the pennant."

He couldn't quite manage a grin at her joke. "Hah. Am I okay? Now there's a question, don't you think?"

The little worry lines between her brows deepened. "What's the matter? What happened?"

"I, uh … I need to go."

Ears perked up to his other side. "Go?" asked Cindy. "Go where?"

He gave her a weak smile. "I'm afraid an emergency has come up. I have to take a rain check on the rest of the evening."

A chorus of dismay went around the table, but he held up a paw. "There is one thing I need to do first, though." He glanced briefly at all of them. "Am I right in assuming that each of you has a favorite among the various paintings on view tonight?"

Enthusiastic nodding answered his query, along with the odd "You bet!" or "Got that right!" or some other affirmative.

"Good. Because each of you will be taking his or her favorite painting home tonight. They're yours."

The stunned silence and dropped jaws lasted only seconds, and then the room erupted in cheers and thanks. He waved it off with a grin, saying, "You're all my favorite people. It's only fair that I express that in some tangible fashion now and then. You've all certainly done enough for me." Then he rose and quickly left the room.

Earl walked over to Diedra, his eyes glistening, and said, "You were in on this, weren't you?"

"Well … I knew he was planning something like this. But I haven't even seen most of the paintings yet, so no, not to that extent."

He bowed low and swept a long arm in the direction of the gallery. "Then it would be my great privilege to give you the dollar tour."

Favoring him with a smile, she answered, "I think I'd like that."

##

**Love is, above all, the gift of oneself. **

_**- Jean Anouilh**_

##

_** Thursday 05 October 2017 – Libya – 4:40am (+1GMT) **_

Wendy had done a good job with the ropes and the gag when she tied up that servant, but the girl was young, limber, fairly strong, and determined, and she was able eventually to work herself out of the bonds. Less than a minute later the palace was in full alert. The very next thing that happened was that one of the guards was sent to check on Karl, and very shortly thereafter the real uproar began. It was loud enough that it woke Wendy, where she was curled up in the dusty closet beside the emaciated wolverine. Raising her head and sending the faintest tendril of empathic force outward, she was rewarded with the knowledge that her activities were known and the populace's blood was up for some good ol' fashioned revenge.

There was a tiny LED light source in her pack and she used it to check her watch, hissing in frustration at the time. This was a good two hours before she'd thought her night's work would be discovered. _No __wonder __I__'__m __still __tired. __But __beggars __can__'__t __be __choosers, __I __guess. __Hell, __as __long __as __I__'__m __wishing, __I __might __as __well __wish __for __Mr. __Sinclair __to __show __up __and __rescue __us._ She frowned at that thought. The homing beacon had been sending its signal out for better than two and a half hours now. So either Diedra didn't get the message; or she got it, and couldn't get in touch with her husband; or she did get it, and talked to him, and he flatly refused to come and help.

The humming roar of hundreds of raised voices grew louder. Some large piece of mechanized equipment rumbled by, shaking a fine sprinkle of dust out of the ceiling, and coating her lightly. It made her want to sneeze but she fought off the urge. Several bodies ran down a nearby corridor, their footfalls echoing faintly. She looked over at the sleeping form beside her and drew a long breath. _The __most __probable __reason __for __our __still __being __here __is __that __Mr. __Sinclair __really __meant __it __when __he __said __he __wouldn__'__t __help __Karl. __Which __means __that __we __are __stuck __here. __Which __means __I __have __to __keep __him __hidden __as __long __as __possible. __Which __means __a __diversion, __because __he __**really **__stinks __and __somefur __is __going __to __come __by __and __smell __him __if __they __do __even __a __half-assed __thorough __search._

Taking the homing beacon from her pocket, she hefted it a few times and then attached it to the long fur on his shoulder – one of the few places he still _had_ long fur. _It __can__'__t __hurt. __And __Diedra __might __still __talk __him __into __it, __if __she __has __enough __time._ Then she placed a paw on either side of his head and tried to get a reading … but there wasn't even a glimmer of activity. His body had shut down so it could heal, and it wasn't about to be interrupted in its task. She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the side of his muzzle, below the one eye he had left, then sat with her back against a wall, balanced her forearms on her knees, and peered upward, dangling the light from one finger so that shadows flickered back and forth on the plaster overhead.

"All right. I haven't done this in a while," she began, "which is, frankly, your fault, so you'll just have to put up with it. I suppose you know I don't trust you, but _**he**_ does, so this is on his behalf. Personally I don't think you give a flying fuck whether we live or die. Right now, though, he's too out of it to pray, so I'm gonna say my piece, and you're gonna hear me out."

She took another deep breath, paused for a few seconds, and went on, "He loves you. Honestly and without reservation. The same way he does me. I know, 'cause I've been in his head. I guess you have, too. Or maybe you could, if you ever bothered to check."

She stopped to collect her thoughts again. "Look, I don't pretend to understand why you shovel all the shit you do, but you're gonna listen to this for once. He's one of your followers, okay? He depends on you, and actually believes that you have his best interests at heart. The way I see it, you owe it to him to get him out of this mess. He doesn't _have_ to be some kind of martyr, okay? That won't do him or you any good."

She wiped at her eyes, and had to wait a bit before she trusted her voice again. "He's only here and hurt because … because he loves me and … he t-tried to do s-something nice for me, because he w-was worried about me."

Another pause, somewhat longer. "So now _**I**__**'**__**m**_ here, and in a minute I'll walk out that door and I'll go fight for him and I'll try not to get killed because there isn't anyone else around to take care of him if I'm gone. So don't let anything happen to him. Okay? 'cause, damn it, you owe him that at least. At the _very_ least!" Standing and brushing herself off, she considered what she'd said, pulled a ragged breath, and shrugged. "I guess that's all. Just pay attention, okay? He's all I've got."

After rummaging through her pack and downing the last two protein drinks, she crept to the closet's door and listened carefully for a minute. Then it eased open and she slipped out into the inky darkness.

##


	16. Limited Engagement

**_Chapter Seven – Limited Engagement_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness.**

_**-Josh Billings**_

##

_** Wednesday 04 October 2017 – California – 8:40pm (-8GMT) **_

Matt flicked into his 'basement' in front of the wardrobe, opened the doors wide, and yanked out the Vylar suit that hung there, an item he had appropriated from a DARPA facility two decades earlier. A flexible exoskeleton that was actually a sort of nano-scale version of chainmail (and one of the first real applications of metallic glass) the microscopic beryllium-titanium octagons were woven into an overlapping matrix of carbon nanotube fiber. This was the prototype that had evolved into the impact shroud that was now infantry standard-issue, and although it was quite a bit more durable than the model the Army had finally adopted, it was also _ridiculously_ expensive to manufacture, even by military standards. The dead-black suit had saved his life numerous times, before he developed the ability to control space-time around his body. Any more, he didn't really need it; but he was used to it, and it felt good when he wore it. If the DARPA guys had ever noticed the prototype missing from storage, they never raised any fuss about it.

He'd made a few modifications to the suit over the years, adding a removable inner layer that made it all but waterproof, and a tiny breathing unit with fifteen minutes of air. He didn't think he'd need either where he was going, and he got himself inside the thing and his boots fastened on in two minutes flat. Pulling the mask over his head and sealing it at the neck, he teleported up to his study and retrieved the tracking unit for the homing beacon Wendy had used.

After a minute or so of fiddling with it to pull up the various coordinate systems, he activated an absolute-polar version. It pointed at the ground, nearly due east, and he grinned a little. _Yeah, __okay, __she __really __is __in __Libya, __or __somewhere __reasonably __close._ Holding the unit, he flicked out to a tiny walled enclosure some distance from the rear of the house. Several meters in front of the entrance, in a heavily insulated kiosk, was the valve that controlled water flow to the fountain that occupied about half of the ersatz garden's interior. Matt activated the valve and water gurgled toward the huge bowl. A propane-based heating system kicked on, and the water came out steaming.

It took a couple of minutes for the hot water to fill the nine-thousand-liter basin, but he waited patiently. One of the things he'd learned early on was that the energy-draw his teleportation inflicted on his surroundings at his point of departure depended on three things. It was directly proportional to the distance he traveled and to the relative velocities between his points of departure and arrival, and exponentially proportional to the amount of mass he took with him. The short version was that it was going to pull one heck of a lot of heat out of the air and ground around him, and his body would take the energy from wherever was practical. By trial and error he had determined that his maximum useful payload was just shy of sixteen hundred kilos, and that jumps of more than a thousand klicks really sucked the energy. Two or three thousand klicks could bring on the local equivalent of an ice age. Popping from one side of the planet to the other was something he just didn't do unless it was absolutely unavoidable. A couple of rather spectacular incidents were tucked away in his memory (incidents he'd prefer not to repeat) that were related to that phenomenon. Ergo, the pool of hot water, and the wall.

Quite a few years back he had developed a sort of worldwide grid that would allow him to get from one place to another with a minimum of fuss and redirection. He would make this trip in five jumps: the first to a tiny island in Lake Michigan, then to an abandoned firing range on the coast of Nova Scotia, then to a small lake in the volcano on Corvo Island in the Azores, then to an outcropping about halfway up the side of the Rock of Gibraltar, then to a deserted spot on the north coast of Tunisia. Once there, he'd get his bearings and zero in on Wendy.

When the pool contained what he judged to be sufficient thermal mass, he flicked over to a low platform conveniently located in the center of the fountain, concentrated briefly and vanished. Almost every erg of useful energy was sucked out of the air and the ground out to a radius of close to twenty meters. The temperature of the water in the pool dropped from eighty degrees Celsius to a bit below zero in a tiny fraction of a second. That nearly-instantaneous increase in volume converted all the potential energy in the crystal lattice of the solid phase to kinetic energy. Newly-formed ice exploded violently out of the pool, traveling mostly straight up due to the shape of the fountain's sides, and briefly achieving a velocity that approached that of sound. The fine, icy dust remaining fell on the dry ground for most of a minute afterward.

##

_** Thursday 05 October 2017 – Libya – 4:45am (+1GMT) **_

Although the skies this night brought not even a hint of overcast, and the moon was all but full, it would be setting in less than half an hour. That meant sharp, well-delineated shadows, and lots of them. In the course of Wendy's assault on the palace, she welcomed the resulting frequent patches of deep darkness. A lot of furs ran around with flashlights (even a few with oil-fed lamps) but they inflicted no real concentrations of light that might pick out a black-furred vixen moving quickly through the night. She reasoned that she would need to get as far away from Karl's position as she could before opening up her various cans of whoop-ass, make as big a splash as possible to gain attention, and then lead away the howling mob she felt sure would result. The plan had the virtue of simplicity. Unfortunately, a similar innocence overlaid her knowledge of assault tactics.

She got to the opposite side of the palace before running afoul of a patrol. It wasn't really her fault since the _patrol_ wasn't technically _patrolling_ at that point. A more desultory "search" would be hard to imagine: the four jackals were huddled in an alcove off a side street, scooted back into the shadow of a fat pillar, and much more interested in resuming their naps than looking for some miscreant fox, no matter how upset His Royal Pain-In-The-Arse might be. All four had finished a twelve-hour stint of guard duty rather recently and resented being rousted out of their cots to chase some stupid spy around the palace. But the same qualities that made the alcove a good place for slackers to congregate also made it a good place for a skulking fugitive to hide for a few seconds while she reconnoitered. Wendy all but tripped over them, and _did_ trip over the piece of a crate one of them was using for a pillow.

The fight was very short, and nearly silent. Ready in her paw, the long knife flashed; three of them tried to pull out their side arms, and the fourth just gaped dumbly at her, thinking, _Naked? __She__'__s __naked!_ A second and a half later they were all bleeding out, their destroyed larynxes rendering them unable to scream. Wendy stood there for a few moments, a little startled by just how easy this _killing_ thing was getting to be; then she gave herself a shake and sped on, a phantom of sharp edges and determination.

She reflected as she ran that the encounter painted a neat and detailed picture of the differences between the style of blade work that Tomas Merced had shown her, and the things she later learned from Karl. Tomas had instructed her in the basics of knife fighting, most pointedly that in a knife fight there would usually be a dead loser and a nearly dead 'winner' bleeding badly. His instructions had been laced with injunctions against killing if it could be helped, with various ways to disarm a foe without really harming him, with methods for disengaging and escape. Karl, on the other paw, had taught her how to kill someone with a knife, and do it in the most efficient ways available. He wasn't interested in the other guy's welfare, or encouraging him to give up and run away. He wanted Wendy alive and unharmed, with no enemies behind her to deal with later, and if that meant leaving a yard full of corpses in her wake, he really had no problem with that.

She made it the rest of the way out of the palace without incident, and stopped in an alley between two houses. The city's subjects were largely awake, but most cowered in their hovels, not having any idea what all the soldiers were so exercised about, but desiring ardently to stay uninvolved. Wendy watched as two armored troop carriers rumbled past, followed by a couple of squads of soldiers. Then a jeep zoomed up and deposited four soldiers with automatics on the corner opposite her alley. They fanned out and started scanning the street, making a slow sweep in her direction.

She risked a quick look at what was going on in their minds, wincing at the raw hostility and hatred seething there. Taking stock of their positions and studying the buildings on the other side of the avenue, she grinned thinly and pulled out two throwing spikes. This was as good a place to start as any. One second and two extraordinary throws later, the two soldiers closest to her slumped silently to the street, and she was running hard for the next one in line. He must have had highly acute hearing, because he turned as she leapt and managed to get off a brief spray of bullets before his head parted company with his neck. The fourth soldier wheeled around, adrenaline flooding his system, and tried to draw a bead on the demonic thing bearing down on him. But the figure, a hazy lump of black in the darkness, avoided his shots, closed with him, and then pain filled his being. He fell back, holding the stump of an arm, and screamed like a klaxon.

Wendy grabbed up his rifle, backtracked, retrieved her spikes, and zipped across the street to the houses there, leaping from ground to barrel to roof and scampering along, skipping over the flat tops and the alleyways between them for several moments before stopping to listen. The wounded fur's screams were still quite audible, and she spotted a squad hurrying in his direction. She took a supported stance against a drying rack and pointed the AK-47 at them.

Karl had done his best to get her familiar with firearms, and so she _did_ know her way around the weapon she currently held; but she didn't like them, didn't think she'd _ever_ like them, and wouldn't depend on one if she could help it. In this situation she wasn't trying to kill the soldiers – though she wouldn't mind if she did hit some of them – but rather wanted their undivided attention. She got it in spades as soon as she pulled the trigger.

Another squad was following the group she fired on, saw her muzzle flash, and as one they unloaded on her position. Bits of stone and mortar flew around her like gnats, and a bullet tore a small chunk out of her left deltoid muscle. She gave a sharp gasp and fell back, scooting quickly away from the edge before dropping the gun and running to the rear of the building. The street on that side was too wide to jump, so she turned left again, making her way over a dozen houses before sliding down the side of one and seeking refuge in an empty cistern. As she made one especially prodigious leap, and nearly missed her footing, she couldn't help recalling the image of Neo trying his first jump in the Matrix. It didn't make her laugh, though.

Her shoulder hurt like a sonuvabitch, but the pain was starting to ease off. Over the next minute, while automatic gunfire _tocketted_ in the background and the yelling soldiers closed in on her former position, she watched and felt as the flesh knit, the skin closed, and she regained full use of the arm. When she rose once more, the grin on her muzzle could best be described as predatory. Her gut instinct hadn't let her down. Taking fire might be painful and inconvenient, but it wasn't the show-stopper it would be for anyone else in the city.

The hunt was on now … and she was about to show them just who in this little contest was the hunter and who was the prey …

##

_** 5:15am (+1GMT) **_

… or so she had reasoned; but the last half hour had shown her the flaw in her plans in no uncertain terms. Dawn was due in a few minutes. Already there was light enough to see by, if not perfectly. Barely able to walk, let alone run, the heavily wounded vixen dropped into the shadows between a dumpster and the back wall of a small café, and tried to catch her breath. That was tough to do when a sucking chest wound was in the process of repairing itself.

Closing her eyes, she spat some more blood and then made the effort to slow her stuttering gasps so she could listen for her pursuers. They were there, and not too far off: one street over, maybe seventy or eighty meters away as the crow flies.

She leaned her head back against the wall, trying to will away the sharp pains of the wounds and the dull aches everywhere else. If only there hadn't been so _many_of them! Even with the dozens she'd killed and dozens more taken out of action, it hadn't so much as made a dent in the numbers on her tail. Dodging bullets was all well and good, but when twenty automatic rifles were raking one's immediate area, it became a bit problematic. She'd lost count of the grazes and minor wounds on her body, and there were three that would have killed anyone else outright. Two of them were still healing, and it was taking a lot more time than it had after her first hit.

She was going to have to do something about the raging hunger in her freshly-knitted gut, and do it _now_. Her regeneration ability was being put through its paces, and no mistake; that took energy, and lots of it, and since she couldn't manage photosynthesis, that left scrounging something to eat. Thus, her current position behind the café.

A few minutes passed before she was satisfied with the closure of the wound under her right breast, but it wasn't leaking any more, and her breathing was steady again. Easing over to the hollow of the doorway, she pushed on it, finding it barred. A quick peek past the jamb seemed to indicate that it was a simple piece of wood in a bracket, and a few seconds' work with her knife got it loose. She was inside in a trice, and searching the shelves for something ready to eat. Several pieces of flatbread and a small cake of dried figs disappeared almost without touching her teeth. A bottle of some sort of fermented milk that was flavored with honey and bananas went down nearly as fast. The dried meat she found she stuffed into a woven sack from a pile beside the door, and several apples and a few small, round loaves soon followed.

Rummaging through a rack beside the storeroom's other door, she was startled when that door opened and a girl walked in. The child didn't see her at first. Wendy figured her to be around ten, certainly no more than twelve, and pretty scrawny. She snuck up behind her and drew her knife. As the girl realized she wasn't alone, she stiffened, turned, and opened her mouth to scream; but Wendy blipped her a smart rap with the pommel on the top of her head, and the child collapsed in a heap. She checked her pulse and nodded. _My __position __might __be __desperate, __but __I__'__m __not __about __to __start __slaughtering __children._

However, this meant that someone would soon come looking for the girl, so Wendy dragged her outside and hid her behind the dumpster. The longer her parents believed she was just loafing somewhere, the better. Munching on an apple, Wendy took to the roofs again, got her bearings, and headed away from the nearest pursuers.

That is, she _assumed_ they were the nearest ones.

##

_** 5:45am (+1GMT) **_

The land around Gafah's capitol city was mostly flat, a sandy and shifting plain interspersed with low, rolling hills. The city itself occupied the only actual high ground within many kilometers, a low monadnock of basalt that jutted up several dozen meters. He'd done that on purpose, to keep enemies from sneaking up on him, and up until now that strategy had worked pretty well.

Matt blinked into existence about a kilometer to the south and checked the homing signal. Nodding in satisfaction, he peered at the motley collection of buildings, and vanished. A guard in a post tower a couple hundred meters away caught the flicker out of the corner of his eye and stared hard at the spot, bringing his binoculars up for a better look. But there was nothing there. He marked it down to a trick of the slanting, dawn light and the early morning breeze lifting the sand here and there.

Appearing at the base of the city wall, Matt pressed himself up against the rough stone. _How __very __medieval,_ he thought, _assuming __you __discount __the __anti-aircraft __guns __every __few __dozen __meters._ Popping up to the top, he then flicked over to the shadows under the nearest emplacement and scanned what he could see of the city. It wasn't very inviting: dry and essentially monochromatic, he thought the inhabitants must find the unrelieved beige/tan/muddy yellow of the buildings exceptionally boring. The few furs he could see plodded along with the resigned gait that subjects – as opposed to citizens – have used for millennia. _But __then __living __under __the __iron __rule __of __a __fanatical __dictator __likely __goes __a __long __way __toward __making __each __day __unpredictable __enough __to __maintain __interest. __I __shall __have __to __do __something __about __that, __I __think._

There was some sort of fairly major disturbance going on well off to his right, but his homing device pointed toward the city center and the palace, or what he assumed to be the palace. It certainly looked palatial, a gilded and gaudy pile of pink and gray marble, and it was the tallest structure in sight. Popping quickly from roof top to roof top, only seconds passed before he ended up on a catwalk near the apex of a stubby tower on the perimeter of the palace. He slipped inside a small door and checked the beacon again. _Okay, __it__'__s __less __than __two __hundred __meters __from __here. __Good. __I __can __fine-tune __the __reception __now._

A few minutes spent tapping buttons and running calibration routines, and he was able to take another reading. _Great! __One __hundred __sixty-three __meters __in __that __direction._ He concentrated and opened a slit in the folds of reality, stepping through into a cool, dusty, and very dimly-lit hallway. This took somewhat longer than a pure teleport, but was much safer, both for him and for whatever or whoever he might pop in beside. But the place was empty, and apparently had been for some time. Frowning, he checked the instrument again, brightening when it pointed straight at a door a mere two meters away. The device went onto a clip made especially for that purpose. He drew his Glock 19 out of the air, flipped the safety off, and opened the door.

It was pitch black inside. Not that this was any sort of impediment; he transitioned to dark-vision and stepped in, carefully checking every aisle, every stack. But the room wasn't all that large, and not many seconds had passed before he saw Karl leaned up against a wall. He gasped and pulled up short, then walked slowly over to what was left of the shattered wolverine. A cursory examination revealed much of the torture he'd been through, and a muttered "Good God!" slipped between Matt's teeth. _Diedra, __I __owe __you __an __apology. __I __was __wrong. __He __didn__'__t __deserve __this. __No __one __could. __How __in __Heaven__'__s __name __is __he __still __alive?_

Ah, but perhaps he wasn't alive. Matt felt for a pulse, wrinkling his nose at the wolverine's pungent odor, a noisome blend of filth, old sweat, urine, singed fur, and decaying blood. Obviously, they hadn't felt any great need to bathe their victim. But through the thick skin, Matt found a heartbeat. It was slow and thready, but it was there. "Hey, Gulo!" He shook the huge fur, but all he got for his trouble was that Karl slumped over sideways to the floor. "Well, crap."

Matt glanced around, wondering where Wendy was. Given the uproar he could hear – _had_ been hearing ever since getting to the wall – she may have left and drawn off the ones searching for them. Judging by the amount of gunfire, there were a _lot_ of furs involved. Did she have backup of some sort? It sounded like more effort than would normally be expended on a single fur. But that was something he would have to worry about later. Right now … right now he had to get his old enemy some serious medical attention.

Thinking, _I __can__'__t __believe __I__'__m __really __doing __this_, he got a grip on Karl's fur and opened a hole under them. The two furs dropped out of sight, and thick frost formed on every surface in the room.

#

Lieutenant Neville Snyder was fourth-generation Royal Navy, and took understandable pride in his position. The fox had studied hard, trained hard, and campaigned hard to get a slot on this, His Majesty's latest and most powerful destroyer, and the Captain considered him to be one of his right-paw furs. The ship was on the third week of a four-month tour of duty patrolling the waters off Libya, part of a coalition effort to try to contain the spread of the blight that was Hamadi Gafah. He had second watch today, and so was on the bridge when the hullabaloo started.

His binoculars trained on the coast away to the south, he was trying to get a visual confirmation of a couple of radar blips when there were several sharp gasps behind him. He whirled around to see a tall figure togged up all in black standing in the door to the communications room. Three of the other furs under his command pulled their side arms and drew down on him. The intruder was unarmed and didn't seem to have any bulges anywhere that might be a bomb, so the unflappable Lieutenant merely asked, "And who might you be?"

"The ambulance service. There's a fur behind me here who's been in Gafah's dungeons for the last couple months. I think he'll live if he gets treatment, and you guys were the closest place I knew of that would have a good trauma facility." He stepped aside and indicated Karl's bulk on the floor. "I spotted you on the way in. Hope you don't mind, but I've gotta scoot. I'm pretty sure his … companion is in need of my help."

This short but very surreal monologue did nothing to help Lieutenant Snyder's confusion. "Perhaps you would care to explain first how you came to be on my bridge."

"Another time, perhaps." He stepped back through the doorway and moved quickly sideways out of sight. The Lieutenant and two of his furs jumped over to cover the door, knowing there was no way out, and he called, "We will be frightfully glad to offer aid to your fellow here, but I must truly insist that you come out and identify yourself.

The only answer was a puff of frigid air that left a rime of frost around the door. When the sailors entered the communications room, it was empty.

##


	17. Logistics

**_Chapter Eight – Logistics_**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

**_. . ._**

##

**EXISTENCE: n**

**A transient, horrible, fantastic dream  
****Wherein is nothing, yet all things do seem:  
****From which we're wakened by a friendly nudge  
****Of our bedfellow Death, and cry, "O fudge!"**

**_-Ambrose Bierce (The Devil's Dictionary)_**

##

_** Thursday 05 October 2017 – Libya – 5:45am (+1GMT) **_

In the palace hospital the regimental surgeon sighed and shook his head, then hurried away to another gurney to lend a paw to the newly-arrived EMT team. Captain Amir al'Balaash, commander of the High Watch, looked down on the still form of yet another of his soldiers, reached out, and gently closed the fur's eyes. Raising his own, he stared around at the tables littered and stacked with the dead, grinding his teeth in frustration. Those near him held their peace, both out of respect for their fallen comrades and out of fear of upsetting their Captain. The jackal turned his attention back to the latest corpse, resting his paws against the table for several long breaths, staring as if his very gaze could burn holes in the bloodied sheet; then he rose to his full height and turned to the sergeant, another victim of the assassin's latest foray against the Sovereign Kingdom of Libya. That fur, currently being treated for a slash across his midsection that had nearly disemboweled him, groaned deeply and fixed pain-filled eyes on his superior officer. Once more al'Balaash asked, "Did you truly not see what was attacking you?"

"No, Captain!" _pant-pant_ "It moved too quickly. Nothing but a blur and …" _pant-pant_ … and flashing teeth and sharp blades." He squeezed his eyes shut against the prick of the needle as the surgeon sewed him up.

"And you," he said, turning to another of the band, "and your story about shooting it …"

"Yes, Sir! I did! I shot it … him … the assassin, I did. Twice. The second time was right in the chest. I knocked him off the roof."

"And then you," he continued, pointing at a third soldier, "saw it get up and run off."

"Yes, Sir, and I got a few shots off at him, too. I am certain I hit him. His blood was spattered on the wall there."

"And yet it escaped you. How might that be, do you think?"

"Sir, I do not know. It stumbled and fell exactly as if it had been hit. But it recovered and ran away around a building. We could not catch it. It was _so __**fast!**__"_

"And that was when, exactly?"

"That was 0525 hours, Sir." He held out his PA. "The com link's time stamp confirmed my report, Sir."

The Captain waved off the communications unit. "I see." He took another look at the clock in the room and then held a paw out toward the sergeant. "And yet, fifteen minutes after taking fire, and falling four or five meters, and taking fire again, and leaving its blood all over the place, it still manages to wipe out his squad so quickly he never even got a good look at it. If he hadn't been wearing that reinforced brace, he'd be lying out there in his own shit along with the rest of them." He held each one's gaze briefly. "Are you _positive_ there is only one?"

"We have recovered no body, Sir. And no one has seen more than one at a time. Sir."

Nodding slowly to himself, he pulled out his military-issue PA and set up an impromptu teleconference with the other regimental leaders.

Now, Captain al'Balaash was the second son of one of the furs who had helped solidify Gafah's position so long ago. Though he had spent the last decade here in the city, his formative years were all played out under the tutelage of his tribal elders and his extremely superstitious grandmother. The stories he got from the maimed soldier, and the first platoon's surviving members, and the reports of what the assassin had done in the last half hour, combined to dredge up all sorts of atavistic terrors. But it also gave him an idea of how to kill the thing he now thought of as a demon. One of his grandmother's stories concerned a village plagued by a bloodthirsty creature that exhibited remarkable speed.

He wasn't sure how this thing was connected with Gamma's disappearance – perhaps it had eaten the wolverine? – but he figured he knew what had to be done now that it was here. Once in contact with the rest of the commanders, their new strategy quickly firmed up. Carefully avoiding any mention of his _real_ fears during his explanation, he outlined a plan for surrounding the creature and trapping it in such a way that it could not get past them. This was met with great enthusiasm, especially by those who had already run afoul of the assassin and survived. With all due haste, they put the plan into action.

#

The monadnock upon which the city was situated was roughly circular and perhaps twenty kilometers across, and the city covered most of it. That gave Wendy a lot of territory to meander through while she led the troops on their merry chase. Her mood alternated between elation that she had managed to inflict so much damage on these horrible furs, and despair over how many wounds she had taken and how much more slowly she was healing, even after gorging twice.

Her mind kept wandering of its own accord down the oddest paths. _That little house over there could really use some new curtains. Sabrina would like this place; it's so dry she'd never have to worry about her tail getting all droopy. I bet there are scorpions all over around here. Have to get some anti-scorpion spray. Don't want any of the little bastards crawling up my leg at an inopportune time._ She scratched at her side where yet another wound had recently closed itself. _Also, a bath would be just the thing now._ Something she really hadn't counted on was how vigorously arteries would squirt when they got chopped open. Her own blood mixed with that of her enemies, and made a hideously uncomfortable, sticky, spiky mess of her fur. She was mortally tired now, and all but dragged herself into a rooftop ventilation duct. _Rest!_ her body cried. Rest and sleep and no more running and no more killing. She curled up out of sight, let her head flop against the still-cold metal, and tried not to think too hard about just how many soldiers she'd done away with in the last couple of hours.

That was the thing that was really getting to her now: the killing. Not fear for her safety; not even fear for Karl, at the moment. The weight of the souls she had liberated was a sodden overcoat of guilt that she couldn't ignore. But rationalization was one of her many talents, and it was getting a workout here. _It's not as if anyone could really call it murder. Well … except, maybe for the first two guards there with Karl, but, seriously, they had it coming._ And she hadn't killed any non-combatants, and she planned on keeping it that way. _These guys pushed me into this corner,_ she told herself, _and if fighting my way out costs 'em dearly, so be it._ They had started the fight. And she meant to finish it.

She just wished she hadn't gotten so many good looks into the eyes of her enemies as death took them. Terrified eyes. Haunted eyes. Despairing eyes. Some she had touched, and so gotten a whiff of their emotional states, and to a fur they had been evil and cruel and vicious. It didn't help. She didn't _want_ to kill them. She didn't _want_ to kill anybody. She only wanted to be left alone, left to make her way in the world with the guy she loved … but then that mental image brought on a wince. Thoughts of Karl as she had last seen him _really _didn't help her mood. Though it frightened her to the point that she wouldn't let herself dwell on it, she knew she couldn't keep this up much longer. She could conjure only two possible scenarios: they would find her and overwhelm her, and then it was only a matter of time before they discovered Karl; or she would have to find a really good place to hide so as to give herself a chance to recuperate, and … well, if she waited too long the end result would be the same. She had to keep their attention, keep them moving, and not give them time to think about the real reasons why she was doing this.

Whimpering at that thought, and at her loudly protesting body, she peered out of the duct and gazed across the rooftops, trying to spot any nearby soldiers. None was in evidence. Letting her shield down just a tiny bit, she felt around for them … and found them. Plenty of them … a lot more of them than there really should be. Below, on the street, and huddled up against the very building where she'd taken her refuge, they waited in expectation, and she realized with a sick certainty that they knew she was there.

#

It hadn't been much of a chore to track the assassin's progress through the city: just follow the trail of bodies and/or parts thereof. The creature made no attempt to hide the fact that it was still active, still hunting his troops, still throwing in his face its physical superiority, and that, as much as anything else, convinced Captain al'Balaash that this was no mere mortal they were dealing with. He reasoned that any normal fur would have to be profoundly insane to pursue the course of action he was observing, and in his mind the creature's stunning ability to do away with his best soldiers ruled that out. So he pulled his forces back. Yes, they would have to maneuver it to a spot where it could be trapped and killed, but he hated to sacrifice any more furs than had already died. That toll was appalling enough.

Fortunately he'd also known that there were still two large squads of the King's fanatical militia in the creature's general area, and he'd directed them to hunt for it while he implemented his plan. But one thing he knew: he would have to be there at the kill. If he wasn't, they would be in an even bigger barrel of shit than they already were. Dismissing his drivers, he sped his jeep through the narrow streets to what he hoped would be the final skirmish.

#

Suddenly very afraid, Wendy expanded her talent, ignoring the jagged edges of their hatred, and poking around wherever she could to try to find out what they meant to do. There were more on the other side, and more still in the building across the road! They knew she was close! And there were … there were so damned _many_ of them! All so eager for blood, for revenge, for death. **_Her_ **death.

She drew the psychic wall back up around her and fought down a rising wave of panic. _Move, girl! You gotta get the hell out!_ She slid out of the duct and stood in its shadow, surveying the territory, deciding to resume her roof-hopping and put as much distance as she could between her and the local troops. The building where she hid was a warehouse or something, she thought, but she wasn't sure what kind, or what it might store. They really all looked the same from the roof. But she could easily jump the gap to the next one, and from there she could see what looked like a veritable warren of smaller buildings. She took several steps that way, preparing to run …

… and a rain of bullets came from two sides; they hammered at the roof beside her and the duct she'd just quitted; they scored the roof ahead of her, blocking her escape that way. She skipped to her right, only to feel something bite her leg, shuddered away in the other direction, and a white-hot lash slapped the back of her left paw. With a cry of pain and fear, she streaked over to the small door that emptied into the warehouse below, all but flying through it.

#

Matt reappeared in the storeroom where he'd found Karl and strode quickly into the hall, glancing up and down its length. Popping to one end, he stepped outside and located the palace, then 'ported up to one of the taller towers. That gave him a good view of most of the eastern half of the city, and he noted with some concern that the gunfire he'd heard earlier was still going. If anything, it was more intense. He began a series of short hops in the general direction of the disturbance.

#

The militia leaders shot commands back and forth, coordinating their attack with ruthless speed, disregarding the safety of the individual fighters in their eagerness to kill the night-black thing that hunted them. The furs in this unit had lost at least one friend apiece to the fiend's bloodlust this day, and they**_ would have _**some payback. Now, with snipers keeping it from leaving the roof, and with their entire complement surrounding the building, they felt they finally had the upper paw.

#

Wendy was not so sanguine about her chances. That she would have to fight her way clear was now obvious … she just wasn't sure how to go about it. Figuring a very covert action to be her best bet, she slunk along the top of a tall rack filled with large crates, and let her empathic field expand.

Her breath caught again. They were _everywhere!_ She would have to engage them, and do it now, or they'd converge on her and there would be such a crowd that her already slim chance of making it out alive would vanish utterly. Fortunately it was quite dark in the warehouse, so she could …

Light flared as several overhead fluorescents came to life.

_Damn. Damn, damn, __**damn!**_ Even if she had some way of hitting the lights and knocking them out, just the act of doing so would bring an avalanche of soldiers down on her. She flitted across, just under the roof, heading toward the thinnest concentration of troops she could sense.

One of them saw her as she dropped in among them, and tried to bring his weapon to bear, but her knife sliced through half his ribs as she landed and he fell, gurgling. Then it got very, very tense for a few seconds. She moved among them as a wraith, striking, dealing death with withering efficiency. More than once she used her incredible speed to literally run on the racks sideways for short spurts. She only took two small wounds, but they just barely managed not to bleed; the skin hung stubbornly open. Her tongue was lolling from her mouth as she ran toward the door and what might, just maybe, mean freedom. But then shadows darkened the square of light and she groaned inwardly.

It was her basic lack of military tactical expertise that finally decided the battle. They had the weight of numbers, and could afford the staggering losses she'd inflicted upon them while they surrounded and trapped her. One small, inexperienced fur could not fight on two fronts, no matter how fast she was. The group of four that came through the door at the back of the building fell to her blade, but she had no time to react to the larger group that stormed around the racks opposite, rifles blazing. The hail of automatic gunfire riveted two lines of red across her torso, spinning her around and slamming her face-first against the wall that was already splattered with her blood.

The howling mob descended on her then, knives and clubs raised and ready to reduce her to paste, but Captain al'Balaash restrained them. "Don't touch it! Stop! Don't touch it!" He quickly moved to stand between her corpse and the mob, his sidearm raised in menace. "Lay not a finger on it."

"But, Sir," the lieutenant complained, "it will heal again to rise and slay! I saw it myself!"

"Yes, Khalid, you are right. Its magic is strong." He glanced down at the shattered vixen. "But this is a Ghoul; if you touch it, it can take your mind. It can move its spirit into your body, and hide, and escape."

The squad moved suddenly back a few steps. Holstering his pistol, the Captain said, "Only cleansing fire can slay this thing so that it stays dead."

"Ah!" came the soft sounds from several in the group. The lieutenant asked, "Do we burn it here?"

"No. It needs to be separated from the earth that gives it strength, and only then will the fire finish the job."

The others milled uncertainly for a moment before the Captain said, "Bring rope."

#

Matt wasn't too far from the sounds of fighting when they ceased. His form little more than a flicker at the edge of sight as he blinked from corner to chimney to window to doorway, he strained his hearing to pick up any noise that might indicate conflict. In his heart he knew that was where he'd find the vixen. He felt as well that he was quickly running out of time.

… _there …_

It was not even a whisper, and Matt glanced around, frowning. But he'd take his hunches where he could find them, and after the incident with the fortune cookie … well, he couldn't afford to ignore anything anymore.

Three streets over he found himself gazing down on a wide avenue flanked by what appeared to be large storage buildings. He could hear the sounds of a crowd now, and they weren't happy. Flicking to the next intersection, he peered around the corner.

#

Old pallets and wooden packing crates had been hurriedly chopped apart for firewood, and in the center of the street the makeshift pyre was beginning to catch. The Captain motioned to one of the soldiers, who dragged on the rope he held, pulling Wendy's body up close to the fire.

"Now, get the other end of the rope around its foot, and we will lift it and stretch it across the flame!"

This they quickly accomplished, careful to avoid actually touching the 'Ghoul', and two soldiers on each end of the line had no trouble pulling it taut and then maneuvering the severely wounded vixen to the center of the rapidly-growing bonfire …

… and then Matt's booted feet slammed into the two holding the rope around her arm. They fell, screaming, into the fire, and the two on the other end, with the pressure on the rope suddenly released, fell back on their tails. Wendy slumped down at the edge of the pyre, a small, smoldering mass.

_**[ Now you must realize a few things here, Gentle Reader. The vixen had wreaked havoc among the troops for the last hour, and they were all whipped into a fever pitch, nearly mad with bloodlust. They were about to witness the culmination of their efforts, and see the Ghoul burnt to ash. And then another one shows up, a fur, like the Ghoul, that is completely black all over, and attacks them. That may help to explain why the militia did what they did. ]**_

Some of those closest to Matt screamed in outrage and fired their weapons at him. But he wasn't there, he was at the other side of the fire, trying to reach their victim. So many of the militia were right there, close enough to share breath, that Matt immediately found himself on the defensive as knives and bullets and rifle butts came his way. Wu Peng's sword flashed into his paw, and he wove a deadly dance among them, clearing a space around him in seconds; but the comrades of the fallen leaped over their corpses, howling, their mad eyes wide, swords high.

Twisting reality around him, he stood his ground for a few heartbeats and let those shoot who would. But the high-velocity lead never touched him; the bullets passed through where he would have been, skipping across a tiny rift of space-time and continuing on past him, to slam into the soldiers coming from the other direction. This only served to increase the rage of the ones left, and they redoubled their attacks. Matt's sword was everywhere, never pausing until he could claim a brief respite.

Finally, there were enough bodies piled around him to a sufficient height that the others had to climb over them to reach him, and he made a jump towards Wendy. Hoping against judgment that she still lived, he glared around at the mindless mob of hate-filled furs, made a crucial decision, and vanished.

Captain al'Balaash's last coherent thought before his eyeballs crystallized and exploded was, _"__I __knew __there __had __to __be __more __of __them!__"_

##


	18. Reconciliations Part A

_**Chapter Nine – Reconciliations – Part A**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

**He has made everything beautiful in its time.  
****He has also set eternity in our hearts;  
****yet we cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.**

**-Ecclesiastes 3:11**

##

_** Thursday 05 October 2017 – Atlanta, Georgia – 1:03am **_

Dr. Joni Scurry hated graveyard shift. The loons and thugs and weirdoes always waited until she got there before they showed up in the ER.

She hated this hospital. Sure Crawford Long was prestigious. Sure, it would make her career if she could stick it out. That was a big 'if'. She was certain that the management met regularly to come up with new ways to make her job more difficult, and tonight's arbitrary staff rearrangement was no exception.

Along with the rest of the poor suckers that worked with her here, she hated being an intern. She couldn't remember her last decent night's sleep. If her clothes looked slept-in, there was an excellent reason.

Nevertheless, she was a conscientious sort, and was shaping up to be a crackerjack doctor. Her knack for diagnosis and triage in this rotation had won her the resident supervisor's approval, and a lengthy list of positive comments in her record. That being said, nothing in the last eight months of ER duty could have prepared her for the sudden appearance of a ninja-wannabe carrying what she was sure was a fatally-injured black-furred femme.

That was eighteen extremely harrowing minutes ago. In that time Dr. Scurry and her trauma team had entubated the victim, put her on an IV push of Ringer's and a bag of Lion-Type-U, enumerated the injuries, and started the first of what she knew would be several hours worth of surgeries. The vixen's blood-stiffened fur (some of which seemed to have been burned off) was quickly shaved to improve access to the wounds; and what a grisly mess _that_ uncovered! She'd obviously taken automatic fire. Joni guessed it was gang-related, and felt a tiny pang of hope, hastily repressed, that she had in some fashion deserved it. But, no … if experience was any indicator, this poor girl was most likely an innocent who just got caught in the crossfire. She wanted to ask the fellow who brought her in, but he'd disappeared as soon as she took her eyes off him. _Typical._ _These __injuries __were __probably __his __fault,_ she thought, and then shook her head with a grimace. _How__'__d __I __get __so __cynical?_

But time for such ruminations was in short supply as she and two other doctors worked to remove seven slugs from the wide variety of wounds in the victim's chest and abdomen. The liver was scored, but not bleeding, and though her job had excised any religion she might have once entertained, Joni offered up a quick word of thanks for that miracle. The last thing this poor girl needed was liver failure on top of her punctured lung and splintered ribs. And nicked descending aorta. And ruptured bowel. And perforated kidney. _Not __that __I __realistically __give __her __a __fart__'__s __chance __in __a __hurricane __of __pulling __through. __God__, __what __a __mess! __It__'__s __pretty __much __unbelievable __that __her __heart __hasn__'__t __already __stopped._ But they worked on, despite the extent of her injuries, and despite the fact that she'd lost so much blood her wounds barely leaked when they should be gushing. The monitor stubbornly kept beeping in a regular – if hesitant and very slow – sinus rhythm. They did everything in their power to encourage that.

##

_** Thursday 05 October 2017 – The Mediterranean – 6:40am **_

Lieutenant Snyder stood at parade rest beside his Captain's desk as the two of them studied the figure in black lounging in the padded leather chair opposite. Captain Jonathan Bingham, a greyhound whose military heritage extended back even further than the Lieutenant's, tapped a pencil repeatedly on the shining hardwood surface, cleared his throat, and said, "So I am simply to accept that you have been, eh, Divinely ordained to this, um … position? Guardianship of the _planet?_ I am not entirely sure, Sir, that I _desire_ such a Guardian."

"Please believe me, Captain, I'd be much happier if I'd never heard of it. The burden isn't one I care to shoulder, but it appears I have little choice. If it makes you feel any better, the previous Guardian assured me there would be years – decades, even – when my aid would be unnecessary. I am nofur's idea of a politician, much less a statesfur, and I have no intention at all of intruding on matters of state. I get pissed off in _triplicate_ whenever someone second-guesses me. That's why I make it a point not to commit that sin against others. That applies doubly where national security is concerned."

The other two didn't seem all that reassured. Matt had debated with himself about this course of action, but he concluded that if he was stuck being the One Guardian, he was, by golly, going to get some mileage out of it. He hoped he would be able to downplay the uncomfortable fact that there wasn't really anything practical they could do about it if he felt compelled to interfere in a given situation.

"Very well, Mister … ah, Guardian, let us turn our attention then to the poor, unfortunate soul you so recently deposited upon my ship."

"Yes, let's. I don't mean to leave him here very long."

"Do you actually believe he will live? Personally, I hold out little hope for his recovery."

"I don't know. I have to try. He's pretty tough. He might surprise us all."

"He will never walk again unaided, I fear. According to my Chief of Surgery, there appears to be hardly any functional structure left in his feet and ankles, and whoever did this has been at it for a long time. He has dozens of old injuries, many of which have not healed properly, and new and grievous ones on top of them. His arms and paws are mangled and crushed. He was tortured, we think, with hot irons, which explains the condition of his chest and back. Plus, he is almost certainly blind, and some sadistic bastard burned a hole through his tongue. He is deep in a coma, and may very well stay there, considering the extent and severity of the damage." He paused, considering his words. "It is not the sort of torture that one typically finds applied to victims to get information from them. This looks … personal. I knew Gafah was a monster, but we had no direct experience with the depth of his depravity before this."

"Well now you do. And I think it's a lesson that a lot more countries need to take to heart. The UN has been pussy-footing around with him, issuing declarations with no teeth and turning a blind eye to atrocities. I think it's time someone put a final and very permanent stop to his crap. And you can quote me."

"I cannot very well quote you if I don't know your name, now can I?"

Matt chuckled. "Point." He considered that for a moment and then smirked. "Eh. Likely won't be necessary. Now that I think of it, I might just go address that bunch of spineless lapdogs myself. Toss 'em an old tomato."

"I am sure I would have no objection. Truth is an unwelcome stranger in that chamber, and has been for years." He leaned forward and placed his fingertips together, tapping the thumbs a few times. "But what do you intend to do at the moment?"

"Find a good parking place for that wolverine in your sickbay. I'm sure you have better things to do, and he needs to, ah, be returned to the fold."

That brought a raised eyebrow from Captain Bingham. "And what 'fold' might that be?"

"Heh. I'm not at liberty to say. But I do know some people. The right people, I hope."

"As you say. And when might we expect this transfer to take place?"

"Well, you've got him stabilized, inasmuch as that can be said of someone in his condition. I'll go give the trauma unit the news, and he should be gone inside the hour."

"Very good." He toyed with the pencil on his desk. "Is there any way in which I might be of aid in this transfer?"

"No. I have to do this in person." He stood. "Fortunately, that isn't difficult." He vanished, and a wave of frigid air washed over the pair of officers as frost formed on the chair and floor where Matt had been. A couple of seconds later a slight shudder ran through the ship, followed by a ferociously loud _**crack**__!_ A vigorous spray of water drenched the vessel's front half and sprinkled the wide windows in the Captain's cabin. Both furs ran over to see what had caused it, and their jaws dropped open in tandem at the sight of what appeared to be very fine sleet settling on every surface, and hundreds of tiny icebergs bobbing in the tropical Mediterranean waters off to starboard.

"Damnation," the Captain whispered. "Would God that he never decides to pursue a life of crime. We'd be bloody well sodded, and no mistake."

"He seems to be a stable and principled fellow, Sir. I for one am encouraged to learn of his … ah, unique position, vis-à-vis world peace."

"Hmm." Captain Bingham stared out for a moment at the distant coastline, then shook his head and grinned ruefully. "Right. Well, nothing for it now. And we have our own duties to look to."

"Very good, Sir." Lieutenant Snyder saluted and left.

##

_** Thursday 05 October 2017 – Boston – 2:10am **_

Some few years back, as part of a contingency plan, Matt had made it his business to learn the home addresses of several prominent members of the Internal Security Bureau. Trailing an icy fog, he stepped out of a ripple of nothing into the middle of the road, a few houses up from Hemanth Rajid's residence, and strolled over to the sidewalk, examining the neighborhood as he walked. The lots were spacious, and didn't crowd the stately homes as some closed communities were wont to do. A fur could have his privacy here if he felt like it. Still, it didn't suit Matt's taste. He preferred to have plenty of room to see someone coming.

The evening being rather brisk, he was glad of the Vylar suit's weight and lack of openings to the elements. Stopping at a low gate in the well-groomed brick fence running along the perimeter, Matt searched the broad yard and the front of the house, finding a few cameras and certain other electronic enhancements. He opened a small hole in the air and peered through it, nodded, made the hole bigger, and stepped through into Rajid's kitchen. _Okay, __let__'__s __see__ … __if __I __were __a __tight-assed __old __mongoose, __where __would __I __put __the __tea?_ He looked in a few cabinets, finding an assortment of teas in the fourth one. _Ah! __Earl __Grey. __Perfect._ The kettle was ready to paw on the stove, and he had the water heating in a few seconds. He prepared two cups, set them on the table, unzipped and removed his headgear, and plopped himself into a chair to wait.

Nor did he have to wait long. A voice from overhead – probably the light fixture, he thought – said, "You are being covered from two directions with automatic weapons. Lie on the floor on your face and place your paws in the small of your back, if you wish to live."

He grinned, but didn't budge. "Hello, Rajid. Sorry to barge in at this ungodly hour, but I have some intel I think you want."

Seconds huddled together like bison in a blizzard as the unseen speaker processed what he'd just heard, but then the voice said, "Sinclair? Is that really you?"

"In the fur."

A few moments later Hemanth strode into the kitchen and pulled up smartly, staring at Matt's suit. "Well."

"Deep subject."

That drew a sigh from the older fur. "Mr. Sinclair, depending on one's point of view, it is either too late or too early for that sort of humor. Why are you here?"

"You know, it wouldn't hurt you to … hang on." He stood and flicked over to the stove, turned off the heat, and brought the whistling kettle back to the table. "Earl Grey okay with you? I love the stuff, and since it was here I figured, what the heck."

Rajid lifted one eyebrow in response, shook his head, and walked over to take a seat. "Predictability was never one of your curses, was it?"

"In my line of work it could get you killed."

"What line of work is that? Art? I knew the critics were occasionally harsh, but …"

"_Now_ who's making with the bad jokes?"

"Pardon me. I had been asleep for less than forty-five minutes."

"Yeah, well, as I said, I'm sorry to put you out like this, but a little bird told me you were looking for Gulo. I pulled him out of Libya an hour or so ago, and your people … say, are you okay?"

Rajid had sat up so suddenly it looked like a mainspring had popped loose. "You got Gamma?"

"That's what I just said."

"His wife contacted you?"

"She did."

"You got him? You actually found him?"

"I did."

"How? Our best agents could not pinpoint his location any closer than somewhere in Gafah's palace!"

Matt smirked like a cat in a dairy. "How do you think?" _Let __him __think __what __he __wants. __No __skin __off __my __snout._ "As you may or may not recall, I possess an array of talents that are actually useful."

"Ah … yes, but …" Rajid was uncertain as to how he should react to the veiled insult. "Oh, very well … where is he?"

"Cedars-Sinai ICU. They weren't very happy with me. Gulo stinks!"

"Stinks?"

"Smells like a garbage truck with a three-days-dead skunk jammed in the tires."

That brought an incredulous look to the mongoose's face. "I knew that wolverine musk was strong, but …"

"No, Rajid, you're being thick. He needs a bath in the worst way."

"Oh. Sorry. Of course. You are right. This is a lot to process and I am operating on insufficient sleep." He cleared his throat and continued, "So captivity did him no good."

Matt gave a harsh _snerk_ sound. "You could say that."

"Then why Los Angeles? Why did you put him on the opposite coast? We have perfectly good hospitals here."

"Cedars has the best trauma center I know of, and if there's one thing Gulo's been through, it's trauma."

"Ah. So then he _was_ tortured. We had thought so."

"And how! I wasn't sure he was even alive when I found him."

"What have they done to him?"

"I think a better question would be, _'__What __**haven**__**'**__**t **__they __done __to __him?__'_ He was … well, put it this way. He's in total hibernation. A profound coma. His system has taken so much damage, has so much healing to do, it might be a month or two before he even wakes up … if he ever does."

Rajid sat in thought for several moments and then said, "Actually, the best trauma center in the country is not available to the general public."

"Is that so? Why am I not surprised?"

"Gulo would not be the first agent to be nursed back from the edge of the grave under our care. Since physical damage is in the job description for many of our operatives, and in some instances we cannot allow them to be administered anesthesia for fear of what might be revealed, we had to develop a way to treat them … unofficially."

"I can't say that really shocks me."

Rajid furrowed his brow in thought and then said, "I can have a team in Los Angeles by midday tomorrow."

"Yeah, you do that. Make a lot of people happy if you got him off their paws." He took a sip of the tea.

Cocking his head as he considered the wolverine, Rajid asked, "Does his wife know yet that you rescued him?"

Matt raised an eyebrow and mulled that over for a second. "No. I'd say not."

"Are you planning to tell her?"

"… Mmmnnyeah. Eventually."

"Do you know where she is right now?"

"That I do."

"She must be nearly insane with the stress of not knowing how your rescue operation went. Why would you not tell her straightaway?"

"Geez, Rajid, that's four questions in a row. When did this get to be a third-degree?"

"This is no sort of third-degree. You and I both know that you will take yourself off whenever you feel like it, and nothing in _my_ meager power would stop you. I am simply curious as to your motives and actions."

"Same old Rajid." He tapped a knuckle on the table and said, "Tell you what. Why don't you just assume that I know what I'm doing, that I have more information about the circumstances than you do, and let me decide when is the best time to pass on info about _what_ever to _whom_ever." He took another loud slurp of his tea and grinned at Rajid.

"That position exhibits rather a great deal of hubris."

"As the fellow on the old radio show was wont to say, 'No brag. Just fact.' You, among all the furs of my acquaintance, should understand the need to play one's cards in close."

The mongoose just stared at him for a bit before finally reaching over and picking up his cup of tea for a sip. "Mm. Nicely done." He rested the cup on his other paw and continued, "I must say, Sinclair, you are treating this … unusual situation with a great deal more aplomb than I would have given you credit for."

"How so?"

"During the last communication we had, you said that if I ever again intruded upon your personal space you would, quote, extract my tonsils through my armpits, unquote. How is it then that you are sitting here, at my table, apparently at ease, and making no further threats to my person?"

"An interesting question, that, and there's quite a story attached, which I won't bore you with right now. The condensed version is that I decided to take my wife's advice."

"Her advice? What wisdom did she have for you?"

"Told me I ought to bury the hatchet with you guys. And she's right. I mean, heck, you weren't even directly involved in her kidnapping. Not personally. You inherited the mess after that idiot Bowenby got the ball rolling and it ran over him."

"I must remember to send Diedra a nice bouquet in gratitude." He pulled out his PA and tapped a few numbers.

"Hey, you got any cream?" Matt asked. "Half-and-half would be even better."

"In the refrigerator. Be my guest."

##


	19. Reconciliations Part B

_**Chapter Nine – Reconciliations – Part B**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

_**. . .**_

##

_** Thursday 05 October 2017 – Atlanta – 1:00pm **_

Apart from a low humming and the occasional subdued beep of the equipment clustered around her bed in the ICU, silence held sway in Wendy's room. Just outside her door, Chief Surgeon Otto Felis consulted with David Heimgeld, the Head of the Trauma Center. That worthy flipped through two pages of her chart, shook his head in disbelief, and asked, again, "_How_ many units has she had?"

"Twenty-eight, and six of those were packed red cells. She just keeps soaking them up."

The portly fox stated, "There is no conceivable way she could have been that low on blood, and not die."

"Yes, Dave, I know. That's why I wanted you to take a look at this."

"B-P's only 92 over 60."

"Yeah, I just took it. It fluctuates. That's down from 98 over 70 about …" he glanced at the clock. "… twenty minutes ago."

"And she hasn't been bleeding?"

"No."

"_Any_where?"

"No. We ran the mobile CAT unit over her and didn't pick up any internal bleeding … though God alone knows why. She's easily the worst shooting victim I've ever seen who wasn't DOA."

"This makes no sense."

"Glad you agree. That's why I wanted you to come down and take a look. Hilde was afraid the nurse she assigned to our Jane Doe was trying to kill her."

"Eh. At least she did finally call us in." Dr. Heimgeld read one item on the chart that made his eyebrows climb. "Blood type … unknown?"

"We think it's because of all the blood we gave her. She got eight units of Lion-U, we switched to Bengal-U-3 for the next five, and then tried a unit of Fox-T. When that took, we stuck with it, since we have a lot more of it than the Universals. All the packed cells were Fox-T."

A nurse bustled past them just then and checked Wendy's transfusion bag, finding it nearly empty. Shaking her head, she hurried over to the two doctors. "You want another one for her?" she asked the bobcat.

"Might as well. It doesn't seem to be hurting her, and we don't want her pressure much below where it is."

She trotted off down the hall. Dr. Heimgeld gave his head a jerk and preceded his friend into her room and over to the bed. "She looks like a hybrid. That could be adding to the blood ID problem. I've never seen a totally black fox before." Turning an eye at Dr. Felis, he asked, "Melanistic mutation?"

"No. Her skin is lighter, under the fur. She has the dermis of a standard vixen."

"It's not a dye job, is it?"

"No. We had the same thought, and plucked a hair to see, but that's its natural coloration."

"Interesting." Dr. Heimgeld finished reading the chart and passed it back with a grimace. "Seven rounds recovered, most likely 7.62's, and five more through-and-through, probably all from an AK."

"How do you know they aren't just standard .30 caliber slugs?"

"Because that's a hunting round, and they _all_ would have gone clean through her." He shook his head in disbelief. "Half her internal organs were hamburger when she got here. How the hell is she not dead?"

"An excellent question. I was hoping you could help us with the answer."

They both looked down at the sleeping – well, okay, comatose – vixen, then examined the various monitors. Dr. Felis muttered, "Blood-ox not too bad."

"Yeah, but look at the chem spread. Way too much lactic acid for my comfort."

"Not surprising, though, with all that damage." He pointed at her shoulder area. "See these? Not all of these are that recent, and there are a lot more just like them. She's covered with cuts and puncture wounds and what I think are a couple of old gunshot scars. And you can see how emaciated she is. Probably starved on top of everything else. Somebody has been torturing this poor girl for what looks like weeks, maybe months. Plus, as you can see, some of her fur was burned off very recently."

"Yeah, I saw that in the notes. So then why all of a sudden blast her with automatics?"

"None of us really knows for sure, but I have a pet theory. I think she either managed to escape or was rescued, and in the process of getting away, they found her and shot at her. I mean, if you want to kill someone – and it sure looks to _me_ like they wanted her dead – then one bullet to the head beats a dozen to the body."

"What do you have to support that?"

"In the first place, there was no gunpowder residue. She was cut down from a distance."

"All right. What else?"

"She was naked when she was shot. Other than her own fur, there was no trace of fiber in any of her wounds."

"Damn. That does fit, doesn't it?"

"I thought so. But with no witnesses, no idea of who she is, or where this happened, it's all just conjecture, and most probably will stay that way."

"Yeah. And unless she turns out to be some rich guy's missing daughter we'll also probably get stuck with the bill for all this."

"Won't be the first time."

Dr. Heimgeld grunted in agreement. "Hey, have you had lunch yet?"

"You kidding? When do I ever?"

"Damn it, Otto, you're the Chief Surgeon! Delegate!"

"Eh. Lunch is for wimps."

"And hungry old people. I'm supposed to meet June at Pitty-Pat's Porch at one-thirty. You're welcome if you want."

"I think I'll stick around here and watch her for a while."

"A nurse can do that. You need to get out."

Giving the fox a sidelong glance, he asked, "You're not still trying to hook me up with your niece are you?"

"No! Of course not."

"No, no. There's no 'of course'. You tried it twice, and I made it plain to you both times that I don't like anorexic girls."

"She's not anorexic, she's vegan."

"Whatever." He gave the fox a shrewd glance. "When you see her at Pitty-Pat's, tell her to gain a dozen kilos. If she'll consider it we might talk."

"Oh, very well, if you insist, I'll tell her."

"Ah-ha!" He pointed an accusatory finger at the fox, who threw up his arms in defeat.

"Fine, then. Stay here."

"Thank you, I will."

"Stay _single_ for all I care."

"Not a problem."

"But don't say I didn't give you a chance."

"I don't need that kind of chance. I don't need a matchmaker. And I _don__'__t_ need any help finding a date. I'm not morally crippled or mentally deficient. And being a big boy and all grown up and whatnot, I can manage my love life all by myself." He watched in satisfaction as his friend scuttled off, then turned back to the monitors.

#

Several minutes passed before Dr. Felis left, during which the nurse came back and hooked 'Jane Doe' up to the twenty-ninth unit of whole blood. Once it was feeding in she checked the vixen's blood pressure, spoke briefly with the physician, and went back to her desk. He watched his patient for a bit, noted the rate at which the blood was being absorbed, muttered, "Twenty-nine. This is one for the books," and stalked out. The door whispered shut behind him.

The air at the foot of the bed rippled and Matt stepped out. He glided up next to her and examined her wounds, then her monitors, then rested both paws on the bedrail. "You know, that doc had the right of it. You really _are_ a mess, and you really _don__'__t_ have any excuse for not being dead. But you know what, kid? You pulled it off. That was one heck of a mess you left in your wake, too. I went back and looked. You made a serious dent in Gafah's armed forces there in the capitol, more even than I did."

Apart from her slow and even breaths, she made not the slightest movement, nor gave any sign that she'd heard him.

"They don't have you on any painkillers. I think they're afraid if they gave you something that depressed your system even a little bit, it might tip the scale. But I know that's gotta hurt. Yeah, you have a really impressive healing ability, but I think you've pretty thoroughly explored its limits." He moved a lank curl of headfur off her forehead and sighed in frustration. "Sure would like to get your end of the story. You pulled off a job that I don't think anyone else on the planet would have even _attempted_, and with zero training in espionage. You didn't even speak the language. If Rajid found out, my bet is he'd try to recruit you." A low chuckle escaped his muzzle. "Which is why he won't find out from _**me**_. But still. I'd love to have the details."

_***seek***_

He startled violently. His ears twitched around; he strained every sense to see if he could ascertain the origin of that suggestion. Was this of a type with the minimal directions he'd received earlier while searching for her? Drawing a deep breath, he asked, "Seek what?"

But then the hunch firmed up and he stared back at the vixen. Carefully avoiding any obviously damaged spots, he laid his fingertips against either side of her head, closed his eyes, and concentrated … and fell, tumbling out of control, into her mind.

_. . . . . . . all was dim, he couldn't see at first …_

_fetched up against something soft and yielding … _

_turned and twisted and managed to get himself into a sitting position …_

_he became aware that he was surrounded by walls …_

_tufts and hillocks of emerald green moss cushioned and comforted him …_

_it was a time and times and half a time before he noticed the music …_

_he tried to stand so he could follow it …_

_that effort pushed him up off the ground and he hung there floating …_

_the land stretched out into a golden gloaming …_

_a profusion of wildflowers swept up the valley …_

_light flooded the meadow …_

_a rustic cabin crouched at its far end whence came the haunting song . . . . . . . ._

Gasping and shaking, he pulled his mind away from hers, as a foot is pulled from the sucking mud of a swamp. Jerking his paws away, he backed off a few steps, shook his head, grounded and centered. "Okay. Right. Yeah. Just what the heck was that?"

Wendy hadn't moved. The monitors beeped, and her chest rose and fell fractionally. But now Matt wasn't fooled. There was a _wealth_ of activity going on belowground.

_***seek***_

Matt looked around incredulously. "What? I'm supposed to go back in there? You have _**got**_ to be kidding!" But that was exactly the impression he received. "Humph," he grumbled, stalking back over to the bed. "Stupid job. Didn't say I'd be playing psychic rugby with an esper Augment, now, did he? He knew better. Stupid Wu Peng and his stupid cryptic directions for this stupid Guardian gig. Ought to have my head examined." That struck him as ironic. "Yeah, maybe _she_ can do it for me." But he steeled himself and assumed his earlier position, closed his eyes, and …

_. . . . . . . the cabin's porch was unpainted but not weathered too badly and the singing was more coherent so he drifted over and pushed on the door and then he was inside so he could see her sitting there in a quilt-draped rocking chair with a large bowl of what looked like water on her lap, but there was a flower of some sort floating in it and her singing made it move, but that wasn't right, it wasn't the flower moving, it was the water, and as he watched suddenly he was closer, right there peering over her shoulder into the bowl where he could see flashes of activity, scenes from the past, and one of them was a very clear picture of Gulo hanging upside down from a rough cross, but then he was free and sitting in that storage room where Matt found him, and Wendy looked up at Matt with a smile that could have powered a steel mill and he heard her say I saved him, didn't I? I'm not dead, and that means you came and got me, and that means you had to get him first . . . . . . ._

"Aaiighhhh!" This time he almost did fall on his keister in yanking himself back, but recovered before wounding his dignity. He glanced around, embarrassed, and trotted over to the door to listen. No running footsteps headed his way, but he took a quick peek through space-time just to be sure: the nurse sat at her station, placidly filling out paperwork. His yell must have been loud only to him. Glancing back over at the bed, he huffed a frustrated breath and said, "So is that it?"

The feeling that settled into the room in answer was a definite 'no'.

Sighing in resignation, he settled his wits once more, stepped up to the vixen, and made contact.

_. . . . . . . She had a fire going in the woodstove when he came around the corner from the kitchen. He was immediately grateful, since the wind was driving snow flurries against the front of the cabin, and the door was none too tight. She nodded at one of the chairs against the wall, so he brought it over next to hers and straddled it. "Okay. This is better."_

"_Thanks. I finally realized what you were doing."_

"_Really? Well that makes one of us."_

_She giggled. "And I'm the one lying here unconscious."_

"_You seem to be a lot more comfortable with this psychic communication thing, though."_

"_Yeah. I sort of 'forgot' to mention that when we talked. One of the perks of the transfusion was this sort of emotion-based telepathy. I've been using it for a while. But this …" and she held both paws out to indicate their surroundings, "… is really new. Like, never happened before. Like, all I've ever picked up until now were feelings. Actually passing thoughts back and forth – if that's truly what's happening and this is not merely a dream – isn't something I have any experience with."_

"_You seem awfully good at it."_

"_Thanks, I guess. I really don't know what I'm doing, though it appears to be working okay so far."_

"_Yeah. I'm glad we can talk like this."_

"_So am I." She leaned forward. "So you pulled him out, right?"_

"_Gulo? Yes, I did. And it didn't even kill me or nothin'."_

"_Thank you, Mr. Sinclair."_

"_Hey, look, if you can officially 'not stand on ceremony', I can, too. Let's just make it plain old Matt."_

"_Okay. Thank you, plain old Matt."_

"_Heh. You're welcome."_

"_So where is he?"_

"_I dropped him off at Cedars Sinai, but the ISB will be there to collect him tomorrow. Rajid said they could take better care of him."_

"_Hah." She crossed her arms and frowned. "Maybe they can, but I don't know if they will. They weren't willing to risk anything to go after him in the first place."_

"_I doubt Rajid had any choice. Heck, for that matter I don't know how you managed to pull it off. How'd you get into the city?"_

"_I posed as a Canadian photographer doing a sympathetic piece on Gafah's regime. Basically, I charmed my way in."_

_His jaw dropped open. "I … ah, you … you did? … sympathetic? … really? … wow."_

"_Evidently they couldn't see one small, bubble-headed femme as being any sort of threat."_

"_That's a – um – a stretch."_

"_You have no idea. I felt like a time-traveler … a scared one. I mean, tenth century attitudes and the whole nine yards."_

"_How'd you get the big guy out of the dungeon? I know he didn't walk out."_

"_You might say they did that for me. They hauled him out into the courtyard and crucified him."_

"_Oh. So that image I caught earlier was accurate."_

"_I __guess. __If __he __was __on __a __big, __wooden _'**X**'_, __hanging __upside __down.__"_

"_Yeah. That had to hurt."_

_Sliding forward to the edge of her rocker and fixing him with a penetrating stare, she asked, "He is going to be okay, isn't he? He'll get better? Heal all the damage?"_

"_I hope you aren't relying on me for an answer. I had as little to do with Omicron as I could, and I really don't know exactly how the healing works. I know he can heal standard wounds, just like you can."_

"_As."_

_He cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. "Mmmyeah, **as** you can. But I don't know if he can re-grow a lost limb or an eye. He might be blind after all the healing is done."_

"_That would suck, but I don't know that it would slow him down much. His other senses are so acute."_

"_Well, it's all speculation at this point. It'll be days or weeks before he comes out of it."_

"_Says who?"_

"_Um … says me, I guess. And that's just because my estimate is a lot more optimistic than other furs' were. I know he can heal the damage to his limbs, grow the skin back, that sort of thing. But it will take time."_

_Her crestfallen look hurt him. "Oh."_

"_Hey, don't worry about it too much." He took her paw in his. "He's as tough as they come, and if he loves you as much as you think he does …"_

"_Not 'think'. He does! I know it. I've been in his mind, ridden the flow of his emotions. You can't even imagine how sure I am that he loves me!"_

"_Okay, okay! In that case everything will be all right."_

_She sat back in her chair and propped her muzzle on one fist. "I wish I could see him."_

"_No, you don't." He held up both paws in defense. "Please don't look at me like that. I don't know how much of him you saw when you rescued him, but he is **not** easy on the eyes right now. Let him rest and regain his strength and heal. At least let him grow his skin back. I doubt he'd want you to see him until then."_

"_But how long …"_

"_I don't know. There is a great deal I don't know."_

"_Damn. Waiting sucks."_

"_Hey, you know what? I'll keep track of it for you. When Rajid and company get him settled in at their uber-high-tech ICU, I'll give you daily reports on his progress. How's that?"_

"… _I … I suppose that will do. For a while."_

"_For that matter, Wendy, we don't know how long you're going to be here."_

"_If I could get some food in my gut, it would be a lot sooner. These people are starving me!"_

"_Says the girl who has absorbed fourteen liters of blood in the last twelve hours."_

"_Ahmm … fourteen? Really?"_

"_Really."_

"_Fourteen. Wow. Okay… maybe 'starving' is a touch hyperbolic."_

"_Maybe it is."_

"_I could eat now, though, truly I could, and they won't feed me. I know the blood helps, but my stomach feels like it's trying to digest itself."_

"_You're in a coma. Makes it hard to chew."_

"_Am I? I'm not so sure any more."_

"_What do you mean by . . . . . . ._

Matt found himself suddenly ejected, standing by her bed. He watched, amazed, as her eyes fluttered open. Her voice was very weak, but she smiled and said, "See? No coma."

"So I see." He eyed her monitors, noted that her heart rate had taken a sudden jump, and said, "I think we had better leave."

"Huh?"

"If the nurse is watching your vitals, she's going to know that something is up. Either she'll be here to check on you _**shortly**_, or she'll call a doctor to do it." He held out his paw. "So unless you feel like being poked and prodded as a medical miracle, I suggest we scoot."

Wendy gave a slight nod and turned her paw over. He laid his in it, and they vanished. When the nurse trotted in twenty seconds later, she was so shocked to find the patient gone that she didn't even notice the frost covering the bed and the area around it.

##

_** Thursday 05 October 2017 – near Los Angeles – 10:52am **_

Diedra straightened the blanket she'd put on Wendy and said, "How's that?"

Around a mouthful of sandwich, the vixen replied, "That's great. So is this."

"And you're sure this won't hurt your stomach?"

"I'm sure. All the pain was from lack of food. I think all my organs have healed up by now, at least enough to work normally. I'm just so damned hungry!" The last bite of sandwich disappeared, and she turned bright eyes on her hostess. "Matt said something about a cheesecake?"

The mongoose chuckled and walked toward the door. "He did. Be right back."

Wendy sighed and rested against the pile of pillows behind her. The Sinclairs proved to be extremely hospitable, and were seeing to her every need. As if on cue, Matt materialized at the door and came over. He had a couple of liter-sized bottles, and held one out to her.

"What's that?"

"High-potency nutrient drink. One of my own concoctions. All-natural and chock full of stuff that's good for what ails you. Drink up."

The liquid was a dark, murky green, but it smelled delicious and tasted better. Both bottles disappeared in about forty-five seconds. She licked her muzzle off and sighed. "Oh, yeah. That's the stuff."

"Thought you'd like it. Diedra's not too fond of them, but then she's a pretty strict carnivore, and there's a full day's worth of veggies in each bottle."

"Her loss. If you've got any more I'd be willing to take it off your paws."

"That was all I had in stock, but I can mix up some more shortly. By lunch, say." He cocked his head and studied her silhouette. "Just where are you putting all this food anyway? Your stomach isn't even distended."

"Karl says this hopped-up metabolism comes as a package with Augmentation, and with the healing ability in particular. I had to triple my daily calorie intake just to keep my weight up. It can get to be something of a chore, let me tell you. It's hard to fit six meals into an already-full day."

"I'll bet."

Diedra came in at that point with half of a large cheesecake and a fork. Wendy eagerly received the treat, and the couple stood with their arms around each other's waist, watching with amusement as she ate. When every crumb was gone and the fork licked spotless, Wendy flopped back with a contented grin. "Okay. Think I'll take a li'l nap now."

"Oh, full-up are we?" Matt asked with a smirk. "I was beginning to wonder if that was possible."

"Mm-hm." She turned on her side and snuggled under the blankets. "You gonna go check on Karl?"

"Absolutely."

" 's good." Her face relaxed in satisfaction.

Diedra pulled at her husband's paw. "Come on. She'll let us know when she needs more to eat."

When they got back to their own room, Diedra swung around in front of Matt, used one foot to kick the door closed, and pulled him in close for a deep kiss. "Wow," he said, at length, grinning hugely, "what's that for?"

"I'm proud of you."

"Oh."

"You don't sound too enthused."

He relaxed his grip, letting his paws slide down to her hips. "Maybe that's because I don't really deserve it."

"How you figure?"

"I was debating with myself about whether I should really try to rescue Gulo, or just make a cursory search and call it good."

"So? You chose correctly. You did the right thing."

"Yeah, but …"

"But, what?"

He released her and went over to their bed, plopping down on the edge. "But it took some really serious … nudging, I guess you'd call it, to _get_ me to do the right thing."

"Nudging?"

"Mm-hm."

"You mean when I asked you to …"

"No, no. Later." He caught her eye and sighed. "You know how I said this Guardian thing came with a few perks?"

"Yes?"

"Wu Peng told me that the Guardian would learn what he would need to know. I thought that was pretty cryptic at the time, but … well, he was right."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that when I was in Libya, looking for Wendy after I'd found Karl, I heard this little voice a couple of times that helped me. Sort of directed my search, so that I'd find her in time."

"Little voice? As in 'still, small voice'?"

"Hah. Yeah. Apt."

"Okay, but why don't you think you deserve …"

"I was getting to that. See, when I was in the bathroom after you got to the gallery, that's when I was having that argument with myself. I was … well, I was trying to squirm out of actually finding Gulo and bringing him back, and trying to come up with a plausible excuse for leaving him there to rot."

"Oh. Ah … I still don't see …"

"Because I was losing the debate. Or my better nature was losing. But then … All right, see, earlier, at lunch, Earl took me to this really great Chinese place he knew." He pointed at her and then at himself. "We have to go there. Soon. You are gonna absolutely scream over the duck. Anyway, when our fortunes came, mine wasn't on paper, it was on a little roll of red silk."

"Silk? Never heard of that before." She stepped over and knelt beside him on the bed.

"Neither had we."

"What was your fortune?"

"It said, 'A wise fur heeds the advice of a loving wife.'"

She giggled and said, "That was either written by a wife or by a husband with a lot of experience."

"That's what I thought. But then later, at the gallery, this little sticky-note just appeared on the wall by one of the paintings. It said the same thing."

Diedra felt her hackles rise slightly. "Where'd it come from?"

"I thought Earl did it as a prank." He lay down on his back, his feet still touching the floor. "I really thought so when I found another one, later, at the receptionist's desk, and I fussed at him. But he didn't know anything about it. I still wasn't sure I believed him, but then you showed up and made your case."

"Uh-huh. And you didn't want to, but … Oh, I see. You think the fortune and the sticky-notes were more of that 'still, small voice' thing?"

"I know it, beyond doubt. When I was in the bathroom, losing that debate with myself, I washed my paws and pulled out some paper towels to dry off, and the same thing was written on the first towel."

Diedra's fur stood up all over at that. "Whoa."

"Yeah. And the second towel said, 'so please at least _try_ to be wise' and that's when I changed my mind."

"Well I guess so!"

"Yeah. As you can see, I do get directions, and they can be insistent enough to penetrate this solid-rock skull of mine. But the bottom line is that I needed those instructions to do the right thing."

"You don't know that." She stretched out beside him, and laid a slim paw on his chest.

"Don't I?"

"No. Do you remember what you told me after your first 'interview' with Wu Peng? About why you'd been chosen?"

"Um … huh. Yeah, okay."

"He said you were incorruptible."

"That doesn't mean I'm not going to make mistakes."

"Perhaps. But it does mean that, if you really think about it, you're going to do the right thing. That's what I think."

"I think you give me too much credit."

"False modesty, Mr. Sinclair," she said, as she started unbuttoning his shirt, "is a sin."

He grinned. "Where have I heard that before?"

"And I stand by my original statement."

"I can live with that."

"And you have too many clothes on."

"So do you."

And the race was on.

##

**Here Ends Book Nine of the Gone Wylde cycle**

##


End file.
